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H 



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NEW YORK: 

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17 TO ^ Vandkwatkr Strickt, 


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Entered according to Act of Congress, in the years 1876, 1884, and 1885, by 

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in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, Washington, D. C7. , , t 1 , 

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4 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


CHAPTER 1. 

CLARITA. 

Among the mountain ranges of Northern New York, there 
are many villages more populous and thriving than Wildford, 
but few possessing greater sylvan beauty or stronger attraction 
to straggling summer tourists. 

In itself it was a mere handful of houses, nestling down in a 
valley, round which the mountain sloped upward on every side, 
and a river, neither wide nor deep, seemed to bind the base of 
the mountain like a ribbon, with innumerable trout streams, 
crystal clear, and cold as ice in the sultriest summer day, 
emptying into its tranquil sides. 

An old gray stone church, coeval with the Revolution, and 
hoary with the moss and lichens of years, stood at the upper 
end, in its willow-shaded church-yard, and half-way down the 
one broad village street a cluster of huge trees had been railed 
in and dignified with the imposing title of Park.^^ Further 
than these, Wildford had few pretensions. 

Nevertheless, during the summer season, the low-eaved 
wooden hotel, with its double range of piazzas and row of um- 
brageous maples along the front, was seldom without a fair rep- 
resentation of travelers, for Wildford was situated near the 
high-road that led from a fashionable summer resort to the 
northern lakes that are becoming more popular every year. 

The level morning sunshine, weaving its golden way through 
the moving leaves of the maple-trees, shone directly into the 
• second story front room of the Park Hotel; the best chamber 
in the house, newly papered that spring with a gorgecius pat- 
tern of blue roses and crimson violets, and carpeted with a 
staring red-and-green ingrain, beneath which a layer of straw, 
thriftily laid down to prevent undue wear, rustled ominously 
at every footfall. And, as it shone, it peeped intrusively be- 
neath the long chestnut eyelashes of Mr. Wycherly Lennox as 
he sat at the table examining the joints of his fishing-rod with 
minute exactness. 


6 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


He was a tall, handsome young fellow, not yet twenty years 
of age, with such a face and figure as one rarely meets. It 
was not alone that he was blue-eyed and brown-haired, witli 
features correct and clearly cut as those of the Apollo Bel- 
vedere; there was a something of refinement about him which 
comes only through generations of high-bred ancestors, and 
can alone be fostered by wealth and culture — an aristocracy of 
manner and look, if one may so express it in this republican- 
age of the world. Mr. Wycherly Lennox had not only 
jeunessey but jeitnesse doree, as he stood at the entrance gates 
of life. 

His dress was plain enough — a light linen suit, with a tiny 
ribbon of blue satin tied round his throat, but beneath that 
ribbon, his collar was fastened with a diamond button, and 
diamonds clasped his wrist-bands, and confined the folds of 
his delicately fine linen. 

A dressing-case of chased silver, furnished with cut-glass 
bottles, and inlaid with mother-of-pearl, was open on the table 
beside him, and a morning robe of pale blue silk, with heavy 
tassels at the waist, lay where he had tossed it carelessly upon 
a chair, while the entire wardrobe scattered around was oddly 
at variance with the low-ceiled and cheaply furnished littlp 
room. 

Yet, Wycherly Lennox was no fop or dandy. It was simply 
that he had, all his life long, been accustomed to the adjuncts 
of luxury. Diamond studs, silver dressing-cases, and linen 
like closely woven cobwebs of snow had always been to him as 
a matter of course, and he had never learned it was possible tp 
live without them. 

As he proceeded with his work, he was whistling softly to 
himself, with a slightly contracted brow, glancing ever and 
anon at an open letter which lay on the table beyond. 

“ It^s the shabbiest thing out!^^ he muttered to himself, 
suddenly dropping the jointed pole, and once more seizing the 
letter, as if to reassure himself of its contents. “ He prom- 
ised, on honor, to meet me here the second week of vacation; 
and here he’s going on to Lake Champlain with a lot of empty- » 
headed, giggling girls. One would think he’d had enough of 
’em in New York last winter; but some people never know 
when they are well off. • Such a jolly time as we could have 
had here! fishing superb, and plenty of it, and walks and rides 
such as I never saw anywhere else short of the White Mount- 
ains! And here he coolly asks me to meet ’em up there the 
last of the week. I won’t do it; yes, perhaps I may, too, after 
all. It’s horridly dull here, without a soul to speak to but the 


THE BELLE OE SAKATOGA. 


? 

landlord and the man that keeps the post-office. If a fellow 
could manage to get some novels; but this confounded hole of 
a place hasn't even got a circulating library!'^ 

He rose up with a prodigious yawn as he spoke^ and catch- 
ing up a broad-brimmed Panama hat, ran down-stairs, with 
his fishing-tackle balanced over one shoulder. 

“I say, landlord!" he called to a fat, elderly man behind the 
bar, who seemed to have no particular object in life except to 
doze, and frighten the flies away from his array of bottles and 
glasses, alternately torpid and lively, “ what time does the 
northern stage go through here?" 

“ The northern stage, sir? You ain't a-goin' to leave, be 
ye?" 

“ Of course I'm going to leave! Did you suppose I was 
going to settle down here for the whole term of my natural life? 
I am neither an oyster nor a fossil; consequently the Wild- 
ford atmosphere does not suit me." 

The landlord looked puzzled. 

“ It's a dreadful healthy atmosphere, sir, they say. Doc- 
tor Gilhaven sent an old lady here last fall, with the asthma, 
and — " 

“ Yes, yes, 1 dare say; butabout the stage to-morrow morn- 
ing?" 

“ You'd better stay till next week, sir, the company's com- 
ing to-morrow." 

“ AVhat company?" 

“ Pierson & Dater's Grand Dramatic Association, sir, 
with ‘ King Eichard the Third,' just as it was received with 
thunders of applause at the Grand Central Theater of New 
York. Only two nights, sir, positively, with Madame Komani 
in her great feats of horsemanship between the acts!" 

The landlord stepped back a pace or two with his hands in 
his pockets, and looked triumphantly at Mr. Lennox, to ob- 
serve the effect of this announcement. But to his horror, the 
reply of that gentleman was short and unappreciative. 

“ Oh, bother!" was all that Wycherly said, as he turned 
contemptuously on his heel, and stalked out of the bar-room. 

“ Madame Eomani and the Infant Prodigy is to stop at our 
house, sir," called out the landlord, as an extra inducement. 
“ The rest stop at the Eagle Tavern. You'd better stay, sir." 

“You can have my room for the madanie and the prodigy 
any time after to-morrow morning," sarcastically answered 
Mr. Lennox, as he strode down the village street, breaking 
carelessly into a mellow, flute-like whistle. 

And the landlord, wondering how any one could possibly 


8 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA 


resist the temptation of a “ grand dramatic performance/^ 
with a trained horse and an infant prodigy thrown in, subsided 
into his leather-covered arm-chair, and began counting the 
moments until the stage from the ten o^clock train should 
bring Madame liomani and Mile. Clarita, who were to be 
his guests. 

The long, bright hours of the cloudless summer day ebbed 
by. To Wycherly it was like a dream of sensuous, luxurious 
bliss, as he lay stretched out on a velvet slope of grass, be- 
neath the overhanging shadows of a gnarled cedar that grew 
close to the water^s edge, his line poised over a dark, sunless 
pool, where the trout stream took a sudden bend, and a mass 
of mossy bowlders jutted over the black waters from the oppo- 
site side. 

The song of birds darting in and out of the copse, the mur- 
murous hum of summer insects, and the ripple of the breeze 
through the leaves overhead only served to enhance the deli- 
cious stillness of the spot where the stray sunbeams that found 
their way through the green awning of luxuriant summer foli- 
age lay like slender lances of light on the soft, mossy bank, 
and Wycherly Lennox — albeit he was of a social nature — felt 
a sort of dreamy satisfaction in reflecting that he was the only 
occupant of the sweet, sylvan spot. 

At such times, in such seasons, there come to us the noblest 
impulses of our lives. We form the loftiest resolutions, and 
live the truest existence. 

Wycherly Lennox had all his life been a spoiled child of 
fortune, playing along the rose-garlanded path of his joyous 
youth, and unconsciously imbibing from those around him a 
frivolous tone of mind which could scarcely conceive of any- 
thing deeper than a mere surface existence. 

Once in a great while the glittering veil seemed to drop be- 
fore his eyes, and he beheld life and destiny as they really were 
— stern realities, neither to be overlooked nor evaded. 

And then he would resolve to abandon the idle follies of a 
sybaritic youth, and bring his life up to the standard which 
presented itself to him as a bright, far-off ideal. 

Some such train of reflection was passing through his mind 
as he lay on the grass, his back and shoulders supported by 
the trunk of the cedar-tree, and an open book on the grass 
beside him — unsyllabled regret for the years that were past, 
and vague resolves for the future. If he had but kept them! 
But in that case our story never would have been written. 

As the sun gradually lowered itself in the western sky, an 
impertinent ray of sunshine, slipping down through the cedar 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


9 


boughs, penetrated to Wycherly^s face. He moved slightly 
aside, with an exclamation of annoyance. 

“ Oh,^^ said a small voice beyond, ‘‘he isn’t asleep, after 
all!” 

“ Halloo!” ejaculated our hero, sitting up and looking 
around him in amazement. 

A very little girl was sitting on the fork of a low-growing 
tree just at the entrance to the glen — a little girl in a soiled 
white dress, with crumpled ribbons at the shoulders, a profu- 
sion of dark, tangled curls, and a pair of big brilliant eyes that 
stared at Mr. Lennox as if he were some natural curiosity, and 
she had paid an entrance fee for the privilege of beholding him. 

For a moment they looked at one another in silence, and 
then Wycherly broke the quaint spell by the sharp, clear tones 
of his voice : 

“ Who the deuce are you, and what do you mean by staring 
at me so?” 

“ Tm Clarita,” answered the little girl, promptly^ “ and 
mamma says a cat may look on a king.” 

“ And who is Clarita?” 

“ The Infant Prodigy!” said the child, straightening herself 
with conscious dignity. “ And I do the Sleeping Princess in 
‘ King Richard the Third ’ — I and Coralie — that’s my little 
sister — only she can’t ride the pony, and mamma says she is 
a dumb thing. But she isn’t. She can spell, oh, so much bet- 
ter than 1!” 

And the child opened her mouth and eyes at the same time, 
to give emphasis to the compound comparative she had coined 
for her own use. 

“ Oh,” said Wycherly, indifferently, “ you belong to the act- 
ing gang, do you? I suppose they don’t invest much of their 
profits in soap and water, to judge from your tout ensemUe.^^ 

The child did not answer. Probably she did not understand, 
but she walked up to Lennox’s basket of trout and curiously 
eyed its contents, with her hands clasped behind her back. 

“ Did vou killl all those fishes?” she asked, abruptly. 

“ Yes,‘'l did.” 

“ Then, you’re a cruel, ugly man, and I hate you!” 

“ Thank you,” said Wycherly, with mock politeness. 

“ Can’t they breave?” (by which the elf doubtless meant 
breathe). 

“ Probably not.” 

“ Could they breavei if they was in the water — way down 
there?” (pointing to the dark pool below). 


10 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


‘‘ Water is their natural element/^ began Lennox, not 
averse to amusing himself with the little girl, “ and — 

But in the sam6 breath she had caught up the basket, and 
emptied its treasured contents — the accumulation of which had 
occupied the whole day — into the stream. 

“ There!^^ she ejaculated, half defiantly,, half in triumph, 
as she looked up into Mr. Lennox’s face. 

“ You little imp of evil!’^ exclaimed Wycherly, springing 
to his feet, and seizing her in his arms. “ I’ve a great mind 
to throw you after ’em! What do you mean by playing your 
monkey tricks on me?” 

And, with a threatening air, he held her suspended over 
the black, shadowy pool. 

“ Now, say your prayers, if you’re lucky enough to know 
any; for you’re going to follow those fishes in precisely five 
seconds,” he said, assuming an executioner’s savage aspect 

But he had mistaken the sort of character he had to deal 
with. Instead of employing herself in any devotional man- 
ner, little Clarita twisted round like a lithe eel, and clinging 
to his neck with one hand, inflicted with the other a scratch 
upon Wycherly’s fair, high-colored cheek, which drew the 
blood in two places. 

He dropped her instantly; she alighted upon her feet, like 
a cat, but made no attempt at flight. 

“ Did you think I was afraid?” she demanded, somewhat 
scornfully. 

“ 1 think you’re a tiger-cub,” he answered, eying his blood- 
stained pocket-handkerchief. 

Clarita ran to the brook-side, and dipped her apron in the 
running water. 

“ That’s good for it,” she said, gravely, applying the wet 
folds to Wycherly’s cheek, as he sat on the bank. “ Does it 
hurt you much?” 

‘‘Are you sorry for me?” he demanded. 

“ Yes,” she answered, gravely. 

“ Then, what did you do it for?” 

“ Oh, 1 don’t stop to think when I’m mad! Mamma don’t, 
either; she threw the tin cup at Coralie last night.” 

“ There must be an amiable family of you,” observed Len- 
nox, satirically. 

“Yes,” assented Clarita, with the utmost gravity. 

Wycherly looked into the dark, brilliant eyes, unusually ex- 
pressive for a child, and noted the beauty of the clustering 
hair^ which hung i\\ loose, wavy rings about her forehead. 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 11 

There was something in the little thing’s face that pleased 
him. 

“ Wellj then, if you are really sorry, so am I,” he said, 
drawing her on his knee; “ for 1 suppose 1 oughtn’t to have 
teased you. How came you out here?” 

“ Oh, mamma was busy sewing up her pink-and-silver 
dress, and I kept asking her questions, and she said she never 
wanted to see my face again, and Coral ie was asleep, and 
mamma said I shouldn’t wake her, ’cause she was tired and 
sick, and so I came out and walked along and along till I came 
to the woods, and then I found some flowers, and I followed 
the brook till I saw you all still, and 1 watched you a little 
while, and then you jumped up and said, ‘ Confound it!’ 
and—” 

“ Exactly so — a very satisfactory account. And where do 
you live?’’ 

We don’t live anywhere; we travel, and go to places!’ 

“ Do you like to act?” 

“Oh, no!” 

The child shook her small head until every dusky ring of 
hair danced up and down. 

“ I get so tired, and.l cry, and so does Coralie, and then 
mamma beats u^. Mamma is awfully cross.” 

“ I should think so.'-” 

“ Coralie and I are going to run away when Coralie gets a 
little bit stronger,” confided Clarita to her new friend, as she 
stroked his mustache softly. “ You won’t tell, will you?” 

“ ^ 0 , I will not tell. How old is Coralie?” 

“ She is six, and I am six. We are twins, but Mr. Pierson 
and mamma put us down in the bills as only four — it draws 
better.” 

“Are you tired now, Clarita?” 

“ Yes, a little.” 

“ Well, then, suppose we go home?” 

•“ Can I walk with you?” cried the child, joyously, as she 
jumped from his knee and skipped merrily around to the op- 
posite side. 

“ To be sure you may. Here, carry that ball of string. 
Now give me yoiir other hand.” 

And Wycherly Lennox took the homeward path feeling not 
a little amused within himself at the odd childish speeches and 
eccentric ways of his little companion. 

“ So you belong to the Grand Dramatic Association, do 
you?” he asked after a brief interval of silence. 

“ Yes,” said Clarita, dancing up and down with her whole 


THE BELLE OF SABATOGA. 


weight upon his hand, we open to-morrow night. Mamma 
wears her pink-and-silver dress and rides Selim the Arabian 
courser in the afterpiece. Pm to be a lost child and the 
learned pony comes along and finds me. Coralie would make 
a much better lost child, ’cause she’s littler than I be, but 
she’s afraid of the pony, and one night she hollered right out 
when his nose touched her face; and Mr. Pierson sweared 
awful behind the scenes and mamma beat Coralie and there 
was such a row. I ain’t afraid of the pony.” 

“ Is Coralie as pretty as you?” asked Mr. Lennox, looking 
down into the round face with its framework of silky tangled 
hair, its dark almond-shaped eyes and the velvet-like bloom 
which exercise and the heat of the day had called to her 
cheeks, which, alas! were unmistakably dirty. 

“ Yes, she’s prettier,” frankly acknowledged Clarita. 
“ She’s^ got long yellow hair that curls with water, and eyes 
that are as blue as my ribbons, and she does all the little 
angeP v.>ou know, and the fairies in the pantomimes!’^ 

As they approached the row of maple-trees in front of the 
village inn, the accents of a shrill, high-pitched voice reached 
their ears. 

Clarita! Where are you, Clarita? Clarita, 1 say!” 

“It’s mamma,” cried the child, clinging to her compan- 
ion’s hand, with a sort of nervous terror, and looking appeal- 
ingly into his face. “ Oh, it’s my mamma! Don’t let her 
beat me, will you? For I haven’t done anything wrong!” 

“ No, no, child; she shall not beat you!” soothed W^ycherly 
Lennox, pressing the little quavering hand encouragingly. 
“ Don’t tremble so — you are safe with me. Birdie, who would 
beat a little cricket like you?” 

“ Mamma beats us both when she gets mad — me and 
Coralie. ” 

“ Then she’s a Turk! Halloo, is that woman your mother?” 



CHAPTEE II. 


CORALIE. 


They had now advanced to a point in the road whe^^they 
could perceive a tall, raw-boned figure standing in the door-way 
of the Park Hotel, with coarse black hair hurriedly twisted 
into a slovenly knot at the back of the head, and a soiled dress 
of faded green lawn, trimmed with tarnished silver cord. Her 
face had the pallid, wrinkled look which is most generally pro- 
duced by the constant use of paints, powders, and cosmetics. 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 13 

and her large black eyes were dull and heavy, as if from lack 
of sleep, or perhaps too frequent resort of stimulants. 

“ Come here, Clarita, this miiiute!^^ she cried, peremptorily, 
as her eyes fell on the shrinking figure of the child; “ where 
have you been hiding yourself? Don^t be a fool— I shahi‘t 
hurt you!^^ 

“ Do you promise?^^ demanded Clarita, still hanging back, 
dubiously, as if her faith in her mother^s protestations were 
not boundless. 

“Yes, yes, I promise! Why doiiH you come here? I tell 
you I am not angry with you!’^ reiterated the woman. 

“ For true and honest?’^ persisted Clarita; “ ^cause you 
know you promised the day I tipped over the kerosene lamp, 
and you broke your promise. 

“I hope the child hasn^t been troublesome to you, sir, 
said the woman, in dulcet, fawning tones, as her quick, y* ".t- 
less eyes took in the general style of Wycherly Lennox's\ !;,J 
and figure. “ She^s very bold, and — 

“ I ain^t bold!^"^ contradicted Clarita, reassured by the pres- 
ence of her stranger friend, and darting a defiant glance from 
beneath her long eyelashes. 

“ She has been no trouble, madame,^^ said Wycherly, loos-' 
ing the child^s hand and turning away, with a slight inclina- 
tion of his head. A pretty, amusing child was well enough, 
he thought, but to be brought into contact with a woman of 
this peculiar stamp was what he did not particularly relish. 
As he entered the threshold of the Park Hotel, however, he 
could not avoid hearing the woman’s voice again. 

“ Clarita! Clarita, I say, come here, or I’ll take your head 
off! Stop your capers this minute, and run down the street to 
the doctor’s— there’s one on the next corner but two — 1 saw 
the sign myself. Tell him to come up as quick as ever he 
can.” 

“ Mamma r’ There was no more fantastic “ capers ” now, 
borrowed fronJ Clarita’s first experience as a “ ballet girl,” but 
she stood still and pale. “ Is Coralie worse?” 

“ Yes, she is worse! Run — quick!” 

She turned once more into the house, while Clarita sped 
away down -the street, like a tiny antelope. 

As Lennox passed along the hall, toward his own room, he 
passed the open door of that whicl, from spangled robes, 
tawdry turbans, and crumpled, frin^d sashes strewn around 
the floor from the half-unpacked boxes, he concluded to be 
that of “ Mme. Romani,” and he could just see the face of 
the little child among the pillows of an old-fashioned chintz 


14 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


lounge, a white, fair face, which made him think of the cher- 
ubs of Raphael, as it lay there, with fair hair streaming away 
from it, and pitying women grouped around. 

“She can’t last long now, poor dear,’* said the landlady, 
officiously drenching the pallid temples with camphor. 

“ Hush, now — she hears you!” interrupted the chamber- 
maid. 

“ Clarital” wailed the feeble voice. “ 1 want Clarita!” 

“ She’ll be here directly,” said Mme. l!omani, who was 
rubbing the child’s hands; “ she’s only gone for the doctor. 
Lie still and don’t fret, that’s a good dear!” 

Lennox closed his door. He could not bear to hear the 
bustle and tumult — he did not like to remember the little pale 
face. 

Life, such as his, instinctively shrinks from Death! He sat 
down and tried to read, but in vain; he caught himself un- 
consciously listening for the footsteps of the doctor, and 
breathed a sigh of relief when he heard the heavy measured 
tread that made the steep stairway creak, with the light, un- 
even footfalls of a child running beside it. 

“ Pooh!” he muttered to himself, suddenly throwing down 
his book, “ what is this sickly brat of a strolling actress to me? 
How can it possibly matter to me whether she lives or dies?” 

It was hardly more than daylight the next morning before 
a soft knock came to his door. Early as it was, however, he 
had been up and dressed for several hours. 

“ Who’s there? ’ he called, glancing impatiently up from 
the letter he was writing, and Mme. Romani’s head popped 
apologetically into the room — an untidy head, tied round with 
a tattered pocket-handkerchief, through which appeared a 
whole diadem of curl papers. 

“ It’s only me, sir; and would you please excuse the liberty, 
but my little child’s a deal worse, and Doctor Roper says 
Clarita mustn’t be in the room, for Coralie calls and frets after 
her the whole time, and it excites her; and Coralie can’t keep 
still, and she won’t go away unless she can come and stay with 
‘Mr. Litchfield Kent.’ And if it wouldn’t be too much 
trouble, sir — ” 

“ Oh, let the little gypsy come in, by all means. I’ll take 
care of her.” 

He held out his hand encouragingly to Clarita, who, with her 
dark curls all disordered, and a crimson shawl wrapped round 
the white dress of the day before, which had evidently not been 
removed all night, ran to his side. 

“I’ll be good,” she said, piteously, with a shy, backward 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 15 

glance toward her mother; “ but I want to stay with you, Mr. 
Litchfield!^" 

“ Fm sure Fm very much beholden to you, sir,"^ began 
Mme. Eomani, and — 

But Wycherly cut short her apologies and thanks, and closed 
the door on her curl papers as soon as possible, while he de- 
voted himself to soothing the pretty child who nestled against 
iiis side. 

“ CoraJie’s going to heaven,"" whispered Clarita, looking 
wistfully in her friend"s face. “ The chamber-maid says so. 
The chamber-maid "s name is Amanda Ann. Coralie says she"s 
glad they don’t have to ride circus horses in heaven, nor dance 
in ‘ Cinderella " when their bones ache. But Coralie don’t 
like to go without me. Can 1 go, too?” 

“ Don’t talk nonsense, child,” said Wycherly, with a 
slight, uncontrollable shudder, as the little tiling’s weird, 
earnest eyes seemed to burn into his face. “ Coralie will be 
all right in a day or two. Come, let’s look at the pictures in 
the big book!” 

Clarita was amused for awhile, but ever and anon she re- 
turned to the subject which evidently possessed her whole 
mind — of Coralie, and the long, long journey which lay before 
her child footsteps, and hazarded solemn suppositions, and 
asked elf-like questions, actually beyond the capacity of Wych- 
erly Lennox to answer, until he was heartily relieved when, at 
length, she dropped asleep in his lap, with her flushed cheek 
against his breast. 

As he sat there, he could hear the footsteps come and go in 
the next room, the sound of suppressed voices; nor was it 
difficult to distinguish what they said — the chamber-maid’s 
pitying questions about the child, who had sunk into a sort of 
torpor, Mme. Komani’s grumbling because the coffee sent up 
for her breakfast was not strong enough, and the doctor’s ob- 
scure remarks as he made his brief visit, and went creaking 
away. 

At length a heavier footfall crossed the threshold, and a 
hoarse, husky voice jarred on the sultry atmosphere of the 
sick-room. 

“ Oh, it’s you, Pierson, is it?” Mme. Eomani asked, indif- 
ferently. 

“ Yes; it’s me. How about the appearance to-night?’" de- 
manded the strange voice. “ Child going, eh? Well, it’s 
what we’ve all got to come to; but it’s dreadful inconvenient, 
just now, to look up another just right for the business.” 


16 


THE BELLE OF SAKATOGA. 


“ Why, you don^t expect me to appear to-night ques- 
tioned the Eomani. 

“ Yes; of course I do. Coralie’ll do very well. 1^11 send 
my wife to sit with her. 

“ She^ll be dead long before night — the doctor said so.^’ 

And something like a sob struggled into the hard, harsh 
tones of the mother^s tuneless voice. 

“ Oh, botheration! that^s all gammon. Doctors always talk 
so.""^ 

“ Do you suppose I haven^t got any eyes for myself, Mr. 
Pierson?'’^ angrily demanded the woman. “ She^s dying, and 
that^s enough! And what^s more, 1 ain’t going on to-night; 
no, not if there was a thousand dollars forfeit!” 

“ But what am I going to do? And the posters ah out!” 
cried Pierson, in consternation. 

‘‘ Never mind the posters. What’s posters to me?” sud- 
denly demanded Mme. Eomani. 

“ They’re a good deal to me, though,” said the proprietor, 
“ as you’ll find out to your cost, Madame Carlotta Eomani, or 
Charlotte Eomayne, whichever title you like best.” 

“ Don’t be crusty, Pierson. Clarita can go on just the 
same,” pleaded Mme. Eomani. 

“ And what use do you ’spose Clarita’ll be to me without 
the Arabian Mother, and Selim, the Trained Courser?” inso- 
lently demanded the man. 

“ Jane Torrey can do the ‘ Arabian Mother,’ can’t she?” 

“Jane Torrey, indeed! She can’t ride Selim no more’n 
she can fly; and Clarita ain’t half afraid enough of Jane Tor- 
rey. I tell you it won’t do. You must go on yourself. No- 
body’s to know that the child’s dead!” 

“ And I tell you I won’t go on! There, now, have you got 
your answer, Tom Pierson?” 

“ Very well. You know the forfeit, and if you can afford 
to lose your share of the profits — ” 

“ Can’t you go out and stop jawing, Tom?” fiercely inter- 
rupted the mother. “I’ve told you what I’m going to do, 
and what 1 ain’t going to do, and I sha’n’t repeat it. Come, 
clear out, and let my poor baby die in peace.” 

Muttering some scarcely audible answer, the proprietor of 
“ The Grand Dramatic Association ” went away, and a dead 
silence ensued, while Clarita still slept peacefully upon Wych- 
erly Lennox’s shoulder, happily unconscious of the dark 
future in store for her, while the merciful hand of God was so 
soon to take her fair-haired little sister to himself. 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


17 


Clarita went down to dinner with him, eat strawberries and 
cream out of his saucer, and had the indescribable happiness of 
mixing the sauce for his j)udding afterward, with a flat carpet 
ottoman placed in the^ chair to make her seat sufficiently high 
for the delicate operation. 

Mme. Komani never appeared, and when he took the child 
out for a long walk after dinner, to evade her ceaseless en- 
treaties to be allowed to go in “just once, to carry Coralie 
some strawberries,*^ there was no sign made as to whether the 
little creature was living or dead. 

“ I saved the biggest berries for Coralie, thirteen in the lit- 
tle white plate, pleaded Clarita. “ Coralie loves strawber- 
ries, and, oh! 1 would step so soft if she was asleep. Mayn^t 
I go?” 

“ No, child, no. After we’ve taken our walk-, perhaps — 
and who knows but that we may find some wild red berries.^” 

“ Strawberries?” 

“Yes; strawberries. They grow on the hills hereabouts.” 

“ And can we pick them our ownselves?” 

“ Yes; and bring them home in a big green leaf, like a 
fairy saucer.” 

Clarita’s eyes sparkled — she bounded along by his side like 
a wild little sprite, heedless of the grief which but now had 
hung so heavily on her childish heart. 

A leaf full of wild berries to surprise Coralie with seemed 
just then the very acme of human felicity, and Clarita could 
scarcely wait to carry the bright anticipation into execution, so 
eager was she to commence the search at once. 

Children take but little note of time, and Wycherly Lennox 
contrived that the late shadows should be lengthening ovei the 
fresh meadows ere he returned with a tired little companion 
— tired but very happy, with a triumphant chalice formed of 
the crown of her battered straw hat, carefully lined with vine 
leaves and filled with wild strawberries, while her own lips 
and fingers were deep-dyed with the juice of that luscious, fra- 
grant fruit. 

As they entered the inn together the landlord met them 
with a rather puzzled face. 

“ I don’t hardly know how we’re goin’ to manage about the 
little girl, sir,” he said nervously, twisting about his thumbs, 
as he advanced toward Wycherly Lennox and his tiny com- 
panion, “ but — ” 

“ What do you mean?” interrupted Lennox, rather sternly, 
for he had always disliked the man’s insinuating manner, and 


18 


THE BELLE OF SAKATOGA. 


found it specially irritating just now. “ How is the sick child, 
this evening?’^ 

“ Oh, sir, they^re gone!^^ 


CHAPTER HI. 

CLAIMED AT LAST. 

“ Gohe!^’ echoed Lennox, in a tone of incredulity. “ Who’s 
gone? Speak out, man, if you’ve got a tongue in your head, 
and don’t stand there staring like an idiot!” 

‘^Madame Romani, sir, and the corpse,” he added, lower- 
ing his voice to a whisper as he caught the glitter of Clarita’s 
dark eyes fixed upon his face. “ She died about eleven o’clock 
this morning — poor, dear baby. They was a-layin’ of her out 
when you was at dinner, but the madame said not to let on, 
for little miss would be sure to make such a sight of a fuss. 
And the doctor was here, and Mr. Playfair, the undertaker, 
and everything was done all straight and correct, with a lead 
coffin packed on ice, and she took the afternoon stage for the 
four o’clock New York train, where her husband is — leastwise, 
I would say he’s in New York — to have the child buried at 
home, and — ” 

“Good Heaven!” ejaculated Wycherly Lennox, fairly 
thunderstruck at this very unexpected tidings. “ You don’t 
mean to say that she’s gone and left this poor little creature?” 

A sudden sense of his own awkward situation rushed upon 
him as he spoke. 

If Clarita was really abandoned upon his hands, it was no 
very enviable position for a young man to be left in; but 
surely a mother who had just lost one child never would be so 
heartless as to desert the other at so tender an age. 

It was not in nature. Even dumb, savage beasts have the 
maternal impulse strong within their untutored hearts, and 
was Mme. Romani less than human? 

It could not be; it was simply impossible! 

As these disconnected thoughts darted swiftly through his 
mind Clarita, who had stood pale as death, drinking in every 
syllable that had been uttered, broke into a wild, wailing cry: 

“ Mamma!” she uttered; “ Coralie! Coralie!” 

“ Oh, sir,” hastily interposed the landlord, “ she’ll be back 
again in two days; she’s left all her trunks and things up- 
stairs.” 

“ A very valuable hostage, truly !” sneered Lennox. “ Land- 
lord, it strikes me that you and I have been neatly sold.” 

The landlord stood in stupid bewilderment. That was a 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 19 

view of the case which had never once occurred to his astute 
mind. 

“ Here/’ said Lennox, authoritatively, to a chamber-maid, 
“ take this child upstairs and stop her crying. As for you, 
Mr. Layton, to the landlord, “ suppose you send for the pro- 
prietor of the traveling-theater concern, and let us see if we 
can get at the bottom of this very unpleasant mystery. ’’ 

“But, sir, 1 asked the madame about her little girl, what 
we should do with her, and she said it was all right, you un- 
derstood, and was going to take charge of her, and — 

“All right!” groaned Lennox; “I should say it was all 
wrong, and that the madame, as you call her, had very cleverly 
managed to outwit all of us. 1 for one have no idea of taking 
charge of a poor little unfortunate like that, whatever her 
mother may have been obliging enough to tell you. Neither, 
as of course you know, can I be made legally responsible.” 

“ But my bill, sir — ” 

“ Ah, exactly, your bill; that’s your business, my friend.” 

The landlord looked blank; but, as a means of throwing 
light upon the opaque subject, immediately dispatched a mes- 
sage to the Eagle Tavern, asking for a private interview 
with Mr. Pierson, who was smoking a pipe under the tall 
Lombardy poplars in front of the aforesaid opposition place 
of entertainment. The manager came |)romptly, and listened 
with great gravity to the case propounded by mine host of the 
Park Hotel. 

“ And now,” concluded Mr. 8eth Layton, insinuating his 
forefinger into the button-hole of Mr. Pierson’s by no means 
immaculate linen duster— “ and now, what do you think about 
it?” 

“ Well,” oracularly answered the manager, “ 1 think just 
this: Madame Eomani may have a husband; and skies may 
fall and weTl catch larks, but I never heard nothing about 
neither circumstance. She’s been with us now a year, and 
never let fall a word as ever she had a living relation but them 
two little gals. She’s smart enough in her way, but cbstinate 
as ten mules, and that little black-eyed gal’s just like her. 
T’other one was more docile-like, but a feeble thing all the 
while. And as for takin’ the corpse home to be buried, and 
a church-yard here! and ain’t there a telegraph station only 
ten miles off? And will anybody tell me,” demanded Mr. 
Pierson, with the wise manner of one who considers himself 
well read in the vast volume of human nature, “ why she 
couldn’t have telegraphed to her man, always supposing she 
had one, and had the poor little creeter buried here, quiet and 


20 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


decent like? I tell you plainly 1 donH like the looks o^ things. 
And if you want to know my honest mind, I don’t b’lieve 
you’Jl ever see hide nor hair of Madame Carlotta Komani 
again.” 

The landlord stood aghast; but Wycherly Lennox was not 
a man to abandon his guest thus. 

“ But of course, as she belongs to your company, you’ll hold 
yourself responsible for the child, who, according to her own 
account, is a performer in your troupe?” 

“ No, I won’t do nothing of the kind,” responded Mr. 
Pierson, thrusting both hands deep down in his pockets, with 
an air of quiet stolid obstinacy that spoke volumes. “ I never 
fancied Clarita, but I swallowed her for the mother’s sake — an 
obstinate, tricky little devil, with a temper like red-hot coals; 
and now that Madame Romani’s cut her stick. I’ll wash my 
hands of the whole tribe and generation of ’em. Me responsi- 
ble? Indeed, that’s a pretty note, that is!” 

Lennox could have gnashed his teeth as he saw what a snare 
his own good-hearted impulses had led him into. 

“ At least, however, you will see to her as long as you re- 
main in Wildford, for — ” 

‘‘ That wonT be long. I’ve got to have a representation 
to-night, for the posters are all out, and my plan is laid, but 
I shall lose money on it; and I shall clear out, bag and bag- 
gage, to-morrow morning.” 

“But who is to pay my bills?” ejaculated the landlord, 
fairly driven desperate by the exigencies of the case, as his 
wife came up to him and whispered that the trunks of 
“ Madame Carlotta Romani,” hurriedly searched by her own 
thrifty fingers, contained nothing more than a tawdry array of 
circus dresses and a few tangles of artificial flowers, silver 
spangles, and soiled silk tights: “Who’s to see me through 
this concern?” 

“ Them as took your rooms, I s’pose,” coolly answered Pier- 
son; “ I’ve got nothing to do with it.” 

“ And poor little Clarita,” added Lennox; “ what is to be- 
come of her?” 

“ Why, they’ve got a poor-house here, I calculate,” replied 
Pierson, relighting the pipe w^hich had inopportunely gone out 
during the heat of the argument; “or, if they haven’t, she 
can be sent to Albany to one of the asylums or houses of 
refuge, or some such place.” 

“ Is there no possible way of communicating with the 
wretched mother? Did she leave no clew nor address?” 

Pierson shook his head, indifferently. 


THE BELLE OE SARATOGA. 


21 


^Tain’fc the way of them folks to leave many tracks behind 
^em/^ he said; “ and she was always a woman as kept herself 
to herself a deal moreen the common of ^em. Lord!^^ he 
added, with a laugh, “ I wouldn^t hev thought you could hev 
been took in so!’^ 

And with these rather unconsolatory words Mr. Pierson 
turned on his heel and walked out of the bar-room, while Len- 
nox, leaving the landlord and his wife to bemoan themselves 
at their leisure, went slowly up to his own room. 

The door of the apartment so lately occupied by Mme. Ko- 
niani was wide open, and Lennox could not forbear glancing 
in at its desolation and disorder, for it had not been put to 
rights since the hurried departure of the actress. 

It was not, however, entirely vacant, for on the couch where 
the poor child of adventure had died, lay little Clarita, her 
face buried amongst the pillows. 

“ Oh, Coralie, Coralie,^^ she sobbed, “ come back to me! 
I am so lonely — so sorry! Oh, Coralie, if I could only see you 
just once!^’ 

It was not in a nature so kindly as Wycherly Lennox’s to 
leave a sorrow like this to wail itself uncomforted away. He 
advanced into the room and stooped over the prostrate form. 

My poor child, come away,” he said. “ Crying will not 
I bring her back again.” 

' But Clarita shrunk from his touch. 

“ You will send me to the poor-house?” 

“ No— 1 will not.” 

“ Mr. Pierson told you to. I heard him on the stairs. Oh, 
1 hate Mr. Pierson! I would kill him if I could!” 

“ Clarita, listen to me. You shall not go to the poor-house. 

I We will wait patiently until your mother comes back.” 

“ But if she don’t come back — if she has gone oft and left 
me? She often used to say she would when she got mad.” 

Time enough to consider that in the future. Come, my 
poor little pet, you have cried yourself as white as a sheet. 
We’ll carry you into my room and lay you on the bed, and I’ll 
tell you the story of ‘ Princess Paribanou and the Singing 
Bird.’” 

Clarita made no further opposition, but allowed him to lift 
her in his arms and carry her where he would. 

“ Mr. Litchfield,” she said, softly, as he laid her down on 
the bed and smoothed back her hair from the tear-wet cheeks, 
“ perhaps — if mamma never comes back — I might stay with 
you and be your little girl?” 

Wycherly rather recoiled from the idea. 


22 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


“ Would you like ifc, Clarita?^ ^ 

“ Oh, very, very much!’^ 

“ Well, vveMl see about it. Only go to sleep a little while. 

“But the story — you promised me a story about Princess — 
what^s her name, you know — and the singing bird, and the 
water that talked; don^t you remember? The same story that 
you told me when we were in the fields. 

“ All right. I’ll tell it to you when j^ou’ve had your nap.’^ 

“ But you won’t go off and leave me while I’m asleep?” 

“ No, I’ll not leave you.” 

“ I’m afraid,” persisted Clarita, piteously. Poor little 
friendless creature, the possibility of losing this one anchor in 
the great boundless sea of life seemed far too dreadful to be 
risked. “ You sit close by the bedside, please, Mr. Litchfield, 
and let me hold your hand. Then, you know. I’ll be sure!” 

Wycherly smiled, but he assented, nevertheless, and poor, 
tired Clarita fell fast asleep, with her fingers tightly clasped 
about his hand, and the big drops yet wet and glistening on 
her eyelashes. 

As the gray, creeping shadows of dusk filled the low-ceiled 
apartment with their vague glow, Wycherly Lennox sat think- 
ing, and this, so nearly as they may be transcribed, was the 
tenor of his thoughts: 

“ A pretty scrape I’ve got myself into! Por that matter, 
though, I’ve contrived not to be very long out of one since 1 
went to school with my first roundabout jacket; but this rather 
tops the whole of ’em. What will my father and Phil say? 
What will my aunt say, andEditha Raymond, and Mrs. Grun- 
dy generally? Mr. Wycherly Lennox coming home with a 
circus rider’s daughter on his hands — it’s enough to drive a 
man mad to think of it! Why couldn’t I have gone on to 
Lake George as Meriton wanted me to, instead of staying here, 
just because I had taken a fancy to a saucy little chit of a girl! 
What am I to do now? If I’ve got any such arrangements as 
lucky stars, or guardian angels, I humbly beg of ’em to come 
forward now, or forever after hold their peace! I shall have 
to give the poor little monkey the slip after the example set 
me by her affectionate mamma; but it is almost too cruel a 
thing to do, too. No,” he added to himself, as he felt the 
tiny fingers unconsciously tighten on his own, “ I’m not quite 
such a brute as that yet, whatever I may come to in the course 
of years. I’ll see the poor little thing safe through the scrape 
some way or other, hanged if I don’t! Editha Raymond would 
say it was a pretty romance, and that I must end it by educat- 
ing my protegee, according to all the forms and ceremonies. 


THE BELLE OF SAKATOGA. 


23 


and marrying her with a flourish of trumpets. Me marry a 
circus rider^s deserted brat! It’s relishing to think of. Hush! 
she’s moaning in her sleep, and 1 don’t much wonder at it, 
either. She’d moan more if she were old enough to compre- 
hend just what a world she’s cast adrift in. How the people 
at home would stare if they could only see how 1 am occupied 
now, pla 3 dng the dry-nurse to a young lady who does the 
‘Infant Prodigy’ parts for a traveling show! She’s pretty 
enough, too — perhaps one day she’ll be beautiful. Features 
regular as a model, eyes and hair like Juliet of Verona. Yes, 
I shouldn’t wonder if she grew up prettier than the ordinary; 
and what’s to become of her then? Ah! perhaps it wouldn’t 
have been the worst thing that could have happened her if she, 
too, had ‘ gone with Coralie,’ as she talked about in her 
prattling way. Coralie’s the better off of the two, 1 fancy. 
Halloo!” 

For Clarita had waked up with a start, looking vaguely 
around her. 

You didn’t leave me,” she murmured, with a sort of 
sleepy, happy triumph. “ Oh, Mr. Litchfield, 1 love you! 
I’ll be your little girl always, if you’ll only let me stay with 
you!” 

“ Heaven forbid!” thought Wycherly Lennox, but he took 
Clarita in his lap, smoothed out her straggling curls, and, 
urged by her vehement solicitations, commenced the time- 
honored tale of the “ Princess and the Singing Bird,” to 
Clarita’s great interest and edification. 

On the whole, he got on with the poor little bereaved nestling 
better than he expected. She was docile, gentle, and easily 
persuaded, and with the exception of one or two passionate 
bursts of grief, when the memory of her still fresh loss recurred 
to her mind, the evening passed very pleasantly away, and at 
ten o’clock Wycherly dismissed her to the care of Amanda 
Ann, who promised faithfully that she should receive every 
care during the night. 

The next two days, full of dreamy summer length though 
they were, elapsed rather rapidly than otherwise, and Wycherly 
Lennox was beginning to feel quite reconciled to the idea of 
returning to New York with an adopted child, as pretty and 
lovable as poor Clarita Romani, when, to the unmitigated 
astonishment of every dweller beneath the roof of the Park 
Hotell, the early stage on the morning of the following day, 
brought Mme. Romani herself, travel-worn, dusty, and hollow- 
eyed. 

“ Get the child’s things together as quick as you can!” she 


24 


THE BELLE OF SAKATOGA. 


cried, authoritatively, to the staring Amanda Ann. “ Make 
haste — I\e got to be off again on the next train. 

Clarita, who had peeped with a Childs’s curiosity over the 
top rail of the dark stairway, ran back to Wycherly^s room 
with palpitating heart and crimsoned cheeks. 

“ It^s mamma,^^ she said, ‘‘ and she wants to take me with 
her!’" 

“ She does, eh? Actually reported herself again! Well, 
upon my word, little woman, that"s better luck than either you 
or I had any right to expect,” Wycherly answered, in high 
spirits. 

‘‘ But 1 won’t go with her!” 

Lennox gazed in absolute amazement at the small, resolute 
form standing in the middle of the room. 

“Clarita,” he said,* reprovingly, “I think you’ve gone 
mad!” 

“ No!” reiterated Clarita, still more firmly. “ I won’t go 
with her! 1 will stay with you.” 

Mr. Lennox began to feel a little apprehensive for the re- 
sults of this uncompromising preference for himself. 

“ You are only a child, my little Clarita,” he began, “ and 
you can not choose for yourself, for — ” 

But, happening to look up, he saw Mme. Eomani at the 
door, her eyes keenly taking note of the whole scene. 

“ Clarita,” she said, carelessly nodding a recognition toward 
the young man, “ go down-stairs and get my handkerchief — 
it’s on the table in the ladies’ parlor. Or, if it isn’t there, 
look on the steps in front. I’m sure I dropped it somewhere 
there. Mr. Kent,” she added, when the little girl had reluct- 
antly disappeared, for she, too, seemed to share in Clarita’s 
misapprehension concerning his name, “ you don’t know that 
child. She has a will like iron, and I don’t want a scene any 
more than, I suppose, you do. 1 am much obliged to you for 
your kindness, and the best way of showing it now is to take 
yourself off. 

“ Take myself off?” repeated the bewildered young man. 
“Where?” 

“ Anywhere, out of Clarita’s way, until we are gone. It 
will only be for two or three hours, for the next stage takes us 
to the depot. If you are once gone, there’ll be no other way 
for her than to submit. Don’t you see the sense of it your- 
self?” 

“Yes — perhaps so.” For Wycherly Lennox could hardly 
have been willing to confess to himself how strong a hold the 
actress’s child was beginning to take upon his heart. 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


25 


“ Then go — go quickly before she returns 

Mme. Eomani beckoned him toward the back stairway which 
led down to the green yard between the house and the stables 
in the rear, and Wycherly obeyed the signal. 

Before Clarita came toiling up the front stairs, reporting, 
as might reasonably have been expected, that the handker- 
chief was nowhere to be found, he was half-way across the 
level stretch of sunny meadow, beyond which lay a cool, fra- 
grant copse, traversed by the winding course of the trout 
stream. 

“ Mamma, panted the child, “ I couldn^t find it — but 
where is Mr. Litchfield?^’ 

For her quick eye had missed him on the instant. 

“ Gone!’"' answered Mme. Eomani, indifierently. “ Come, 
don’t be a goose — do you suppose he wanted to be bothered 
with a child like you?” 

“ Gone! gone!” repeated Clarita, throwing herself upon 
the floor with a passionate burst of tears and sobs. “ But I 
loved him, mamma, 1 loved him! 1 would have been his little 
girl always!” 

“ He didn’t want you, you see?” 

“ How do you know he didn’t want me? Did he tell you 
so?” 

“ Yes,” unhesitatingly answered her mother, adopting, as 
was generally her wont, the readiest lie that rose to her lips. 

“ Then 1 don’t love him any more!” sobbed the child, 
scrambling to her feet and stamping them indignantly upon 
the floor. “ I’ll never love him again!” 

“ Come, Clarita,” said Mme. Eomani, authoritatively, I’m 
tired of all this nonsense, and I want you to help me put the 
things together. Come!” 

She went out of the room, and Clarita followed, sullenly 
and in silence. There were no more tears and sobs — no pas- 
sionate lamentations, nor incoherent wailings. 

Clarita accepted her fate as she had accepted many another 
disagreeable necessity in the course of her sunless life; but it 
was none the sweeter dispensation for all that. 

Mme. Eomani was in a high good-humor for her, paying all 
scores without a word of disputation, and liberally rewarding 
the servants who had shown special attention to herself or her 
little daughters. Amanda Ann, in particular, quite had her 
breath taken away by the generosity of the present made to 
her. 

“ I’m sure, ma’am, I thank you kindly,” said Amanda 
Ann, “ and — ” 


26 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


“ Carlotta Eornaiii knows her friends/^ interrupted the 
woman, nodding her head. “ Perhaps I may be a rich lady 
some time, Amanda Ann; stranger things have happened, 
and 1 doiPt mind teiling you that my chances now are better 
than some people would suppose — 

“ Bless me, ma'am ejaculated the girl, seeing that Mme. 
Eomani paused for a reply, “ who^d ha* thought it, to be sure?^^ 

“ And then,^^ went on the actress, “ you shall be my maid, 
Amanda Ann. Come, Clarita; have you got that bonnet on? 
I never saw so slow a child in my life. Do help her, girl; the 
stage is coming now. 

The kind-hearted chamber-maid knelt down to tie the 
crumpled blue strings of Clarita^s much-abused hat, and whis- 
pered a word or two of consolation. 

“ I’ll tell the young gentleman good-b 3 ^e for you, my own 
self,” she said, ‘‘ when he comes back. ” 

Don’t tell him good-bye,” sharply commanded Clarita, 
to the great consternation of Amanda Ann; “ I don’t want to 
see him any more!” 

“ For the land’s sake, why?” 

‘‘Because he went off and left me! Now, don’t talk any 
more; I am tired of talk. But I like you, Amanda Ann,” 
she added, relenting a little, and putting up her lips for a kiss, 
as the stage rolled to the door and the bass-voiced driver 
bawled out: 

“ Now, then, all aboard, if you please, ladies and gents!” 

Mme. Eomani pushed Clarita in, and followed herself; the 
door banged to, and the stage rolled heavily away. 

And thus Wycherly Lennox was parted from the actress’s 
dark-eyed little daughter, not to again behold her, until after 
the lapse of long and not eventless years. 


CHAPTEE IV. 

Clarita’s home. 

Little Clarita knelt upon the cushion of the stage, to look 
out of the window as they lumbered through the one main 
street of Wildford. It might be to catch a glimpse of her 
recreant companion of the last few days; but in that event she 
was grievously disappointed, for not a trace of the missing 
cavalier met her wistful, anxious gaze, and presently she 
climbed down again and sat perfectly still, to the infinite 
gratification of their only fellow-traveler, a vinegar-faced lady 
of a very uncertain age, whose stiffly starched skirts were in- 
commoded by the child’s worn shoes, as she knelt to look out. 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 27 

“ I don^t see what business people have traveling with chil- 
dren/^ she muttered. 

Don^t you, ma’am retorted Mme. Eomani, who, though 
she herself used the privilege of finding fault with Clarita was 
nevertheless incensed that any one else should venture so to 
do. “ Then I can tell you, ma’am, that it will be some time 
before you will travel with any of your own; so don’t distress 
yourself. ” 

The old maid colored, bridled, and pursed up her lips as 
though she disdained to carry on any further conversation with 
such a bold-looking woman; and Mine. Eomani chuckled to 
herself over the verbal victory she had gained. 

Clarita asked no questions and hazarded no observations as 
long as they were rolling along in the stage, but when they 
had been transferred to the cars, and were gliding with a more 
swift and even motion over the beautiful country, whose sum- 
mer light and glow lay smiling on every side around the iron 
track, she crept up close to her mother, reading the expres- 
sion of her eyes with an almost animal quickness of instinct. 
Clarita scarcely ever spoke to her mother when that lady’s 
very uncertain temper would have rendered conversation im- 
practicable; now, however, she thought she might venture 
upon a few questions. 

“ Mamma,” she began, “ where are you going?” 

“To New York.” 

“ New York — New York,” repeated the child; “ why, that 
was where you acted Queen in the old theater, with the little 
boys painted on the ceilings, and where Coralie and 1 danced 
with the other little girls, and we all had garlands of flowers! 
Oh, mamma, mamma! Coralie will never dance any more!” 

“There, there, child, don’t cry,” said Mme. Eomani, 
smoothing her little one’s silky curls; “ she is better off — yes, 
I do believe she is. ” 

“ But 1 am not, mamma.” 

Mme. Eomani looked at Clarita with a singular, disagreea- 
ble smile. 

“You speak the truth there, Clarita. You are not!” 

“ But, mamma, what are we going to New York for?” 
persisted Clarita, after trying to think in vain what her moth- 
er could possibly mean by the sneering way in which she spoke, 
and finally coming to the unsatisfactory conclusion, that “ it 
was only mamma’s way. ” 

“ To make our living!” abruptly answered the actress. 

“ Am 1 going to dance in a spangled frock, mamma? An(J 
will you ride on a horse?” 


28 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


‘‘Clarita/^ said Mme. Eoniani, sharply, “look here. 
That^s right, come closer. I want your whole attention. 
You are not to talk any more about dancing, and horses, 
and theaters, and all the life we have lived up to this time. 
You are to forget it entirely. Or, if you caii^t do that,^^ 
reading Olarita^s consternation in her face, “ you are to behave 
exactly as if it were forgotten. You are never to speak of it, 
never to allude to it. No one must know that I ever acted on 
the stage, or that you or your sister danced or played fairies. 
Do you understand me?’^ 

“ Yes, mamma. 

“ And will you obey me?^^ 

“ Yes, mamma.^^ 

“ Very well; that^s my own good child. I^m going to take 
you to New York, where 3 mu shall have all the toys, and 
candy, and new dresses that you want, as long as you are an 
obedient child and behave yourself. What are you crying 
about now?^’ she demanded, as she saw the large drops begin- 
ning to gather in the child ’s eyes. 

“ Oh, mamma, Ooralie! Coralie would have been so hap- 
py! She loved candy; and don’t you remember the little rub- 
ber doll she used to carry to bed with her, and wore all the 
paint off its mouth kissing it? Oh, I don’t want to be happy 
without Coralie!” 

“Hush, child!” said Mme. Eomani, herself somewhat 
moved, as the twitching round her hard, red lips indicated; 
“yes, you do. I tell you Coralie’s better of — and you shall 
have some hot-house flowers, real jasmine and japonicas, such 
as you never saw before in all your life, except through a shop 
window, to put on her grave.” 

“ Will you go there with me, mamma?” 

“ Yes; I’ll go there with you whenever you are a good girl. 
We’re going to be rich now, you and 1, my pet.” 

Clarita sat pondering in her childish brain the meaning of 
her mother’s words, “ to be rich.” In her mind the phrase 
meant nice dresses, a shining, new varnished carriage to roll 
in, and cake and fruit every day. Yes, it was all very nice; 
but to the affectionate little girl the joyous dispensation 
seemed to have come all too late, since Coralie could not be 
there to enjoy it, too. 

And while she thought and thought, and tried to disentangle 
the confused fancies that peopled her mind, our little Clarita 
fell fast asleep with her head upon her mother’s shoulder. 

She waked and slept, and waked again many times during 
the course of that long day, and at last, when the sun was 


THE BELLP: of SARATOGA. 


29 


low in the west, they rolled into the depot at New York, en- 
countering the rush and tumult and bustle which turn that, 
devoted spot into a modern Babel to all inexperienced trav- 
elers. 

Mme. Komani, however, soon installed herself in a carriage, 
with Clarita by her side, and her baggage piled on behind, and 
directed the hackman, in a whisper, where to drive. 

“ Mamma,^^ whispered Clarita, unable longer to repress her 
ardent curiosity, mamma, do please tell me where we are 
going?” 

“ Don^t ask any questions, child sharply replied her 
mother. “ I know where we are going, and that is all that is 
necessary to be known. And look you here, Clarita, what- 
ever happens, or whatever you may see, keep your tongue be- 
tween your teeth, or 1^11 make you rue the day that you dis- 
obeyed me. 

Her look, full of savage resolution, overawed the child. 
She had seen Mme. Eomani look just so when she had a fiery 
or fractious horse to deal with, and she knew what the expres- 
sion meant.' Clarita shrunk away into her corner of the car- 
riage, and Mme. Komani smiled to observe the instinctive 
movement. 

“ That’s right,” she said, more gently, and then a deep 
silence, moody on one part and terrified on the other, settled 
upon this strange mother and daughter. 

After a drive of more than half an hour, the hack stopped 
in front of a magnificent brown-stone palace, from whose 
portico, supported by carved columns and Corinthian capitals, 
a double flight of steps swept gracefully downward. 

“ This ’ere’s the place, ma’am,” said the driver, leaning 
down from his box, until any one unacquainted with the acro- 
batic qualifications of hack-drivers would have momentarily 
expected him to fall ofi it altogether. 

Very well. You may wait.” 

And Mme. Romani, leading her child by the hand, boldy 
ascended the left-hand flight of steps, and pulled the silver 
bell-knob, heedless of the fact that it was hung with long 
strips of fluttering black crape mingled with narrow white 
ribbon. 

A man-servant, dressed from head to foot in such elegant 
black that little Clarita at once thought that he must be a 
minister, or a Catholic priest at the very least, opened the 
door. His look of insolent surprise at seeing two such ques- 
tionable strangers changed to a respectful obseq uiousness as he 
listened to Mme. Romani’s whispered communication. 


30 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


“Yes, ma^am, certainly, ma’am. Would you be pleased 
to walk in?” 

He held the rosewood door wide open, while Mme. Eomani 
entered. Clarita stared round at the fawn color and gold of 
the frescoed panels and ceiling, and the velvet softness of the 
Wilton carpet, into which her tiny feet sunk as if it were piled 
ankle deep with fresh-cut blossoms, instead of pictured roses 
and violets. 

She had never been in such a place in all her life. 

“ Shall I take the young lady into the housekeeper’s room, 
ma’am, before I go up?” asked the man, as he flung open a 
side door, with a bow. 

“ No; I prefer she should remain with me,” was the brief 
answer, and the door was closed behind them. 

It was a very large room, high-ceiled, and apparently with 
other apartments of equal size and grandeur separated from 
it by draperies of dark satin hung between fluted marble 
columns. 

Here and there one, looped up with what Clarita fancied to 
be ropes of solid gold, revealed the half-lighted splendors be- 
yond. The carpet was of a deep blue, without shading or pat- 
tern; the chairs were gilded, and covered with blue and gold 
satin. Large pictures, in dark, almost imperceptible tints, 
hung in massive gold frames from the walls, and statuettes of 
bronze and marble glimmered from the backgrounds of vel- 
vet, while a hundred costly tiny trifles scattered round the 
apartment — pearl tables, boxes of various shells set with 
priceless cameos, antique cabinets, rare old books illumi- 
nated and bound in gold and velvet, and vases taller than 
Clarita’s self, covered with odd Chinese figures of birds and 
beasts, that betokened a wealth that must have been bound- 
less, while throughout all the room a fair, delicious perfume 
floated from the baskets of wet moss, filled with the sweetest 
of roses and heavy-scented violets, that were placed around on 
slender gilded tables and brackets of carved wood. 

But in the center of this magnificent apartment, supported 
on trestles covered with the heavy downward sweeps of a black 
velvet pall, stood an object which riveted Clarita’s eyes to it 
with a sort of dumb horror — a little coffin of polished rose- 
wood, studded with gold nails, and piled high with gold crosses, 
stars and garlands of waxen-white blossoms, in which, pillowed 
on glistening satin, and covered by a veil of thin white gauze, 
a child’s corpse lay. 

Clarita, still holding tight to her mother’s hand, crept up 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 31 

to the Spot where the coffin stood, and looked down into its 
satin-lined depths. 

“ Mamma/^ she sobbed, with a faint, wailing cry, “is it 
Coralie?^'’ 

“ Yes, it is Ooralie,^^ Mnie. Eomani assented, with a slight 
quiver in her voice, as she stood gazing on the marble-white 
brow and rigid features of the dead child. 

“ Oh, mamma, why did they bring her here?’^ whispered 
Clarita, with dilated eyes and lips apart. 

“ I told you you were to ask no questions, was the stern 
reply. 

At this moment the servant re-entered the room. 

“ My lady says will you walk upstairs? She feels hardly 
well enough to come down."^’ 

Mme. Eomani hesitated a monient. 

“ Yes,'^ she said, at length. “ Clarita,^^ turning to the 
little girl, “ you may stay liere.^^ 

Yes, mamma, assented the child, who had drawn one of 
the satin chairs close to the tiny coffin, and climbed up on it, 
the better to feast her eyes on the beautiful, clear features of 
her cherished little sister. 

“ What! here, ma^am? With the corpse? I beg your par- 
don, ma’am; but 1 think I couldn’t rightly have understood 
I you!” said the man, in extreme astonishment. 

“Yes, here. Are you deaf?” abruptly demanded Mme. 
Eomani, while Clarita looked with a half -scornful smile into 
his face. 

“ I am not afraid of Coralie,” she said. “ We loved each 
other. I’ll stay here with her. Go away, man!” 

I The servant stared more than ever; but obedient to Mme. 

I Eomani’s gesture, he preceded her out of the room, leaving 
Clarita alone with the little corpse and the coffin and the 
waxen-white blossoms piled about it. 

More than an hour must have elapsed, when Mme. Eomani 
re-entered the dusky gloom of the magnificent suite of apart- 
ments, now rendered more intense than ever in the shadows of 
twilight; but she was not alone. 

A woman accompanied her, apparently some sixty years of 
age — a woman who was all deformed and bent over, partly from 
age and partly from some original malformation, and who 
leaned upon a gold -headed cane as she walked. Her hair, white 
as snow, was covered with a coiffure of priceless old lace, and 
her sunken eyes glowed like live coals, while her face was yel- 
low and wrinkled like discolored parchment, and a sort of set 
elongation of the mouth revealed one or two tusk-like teeth. 


32 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 

She looked like the old witch of some fairy tale, stepped out 
from the picturesque frame of fiction, nor was her peculiar 
appearance rendered less outre by her dress, which was of 
great elegance. 

Diamonds gleamed in her yellow ears — diamonds fastened 
the lace at the skinny throat, and glittered from her claw-like 
fingers, and her dress of crimson silk, brocaded with stiff bou- 
quets of golden wheat, was half hidden by a shawl of India 
fabric the barbaric magnificence of whose pattern seemed 
strangely inappropriate to the mild summer evening. 

This singular figure hobbled forward at Mme. Eomani^'s side 
till they had reached the place where little Clarita had fallen 
fast asleep, with her arms folded on the coffin-lid, and her 
dimpled face, framed in crushed japonicas and white violets, 
turned up, a strange, carmine-tinted contrast to the marble- 
white face beneath the veil of gauze. Two sleepers, the one 
living and the other dead — the one so full of health and vital 
force, the other done forever with life and its concerns! 

“Humph!^^ spoke out the old woman, in a hoarse, croak- 
ing sort of whisper. Is this the child 

“ This is the child,^^ Mme. Romani briefly answered. 

She is pretty — she is very pretty 

The old woman bent to examine the sleeping child’s lovely 
features until her hot breath fanned the loose rings of dark 
hair that lay on its temples. 

“ Well, Sabrina, it’s a pity, isn’t it, the way things are 
ordered in this world? But we all have our destiny in our own 
hands, to a certain extent. I don’t really see that we can do 
any better than you suggest. Your terms are simply exorbi- 
tant, but — ” 

“ How did you say, my lady, your daughter was?” smooth- 
ly inquired Mme. Romani. “ Enjoying the climate of foreign 
parts — and the child born in Italy was a daughter too, grow- 
ing and prosperous, eh? Ah, madame, don’t be too hard on 
a poor, hard-working mother like me, when you remember 
what a fortune that child was born to, and my poor little elf,” 
and she pointed to Clarita’s unconscious face, “ must walk in 
such a different path!” 

The old woman, far from being melted by Mme. Romani’s 
pathetic appeal, glared angrily at her, and a sort of hissing 
sound issued from between the yellow tusks of teeth. Yet 
there was a certain fear in her glance, too, as if she felt that 
the tall, handsome woman standing before her was more than 
a match for her keen, serpent-like subtlety. 

“ Sabrina,” she said, sullenly, “ I believe you Ye a fiend in- 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


33 


carnate! Well, have it your own way; but mind — mind you 
don^t deceive me, or try to outmanage me in any of your 
Satanic ways. You are a smart woman, Sabrina, but I am a 
smarter when once 1 am upon my guard, and you'^d better 
never have been born than once to let me find you trifling 
with me.^^ 

She shook her cane with a gesture of indescribable malice at 
her companion as she spoke. 

‘‘ Trust me, madame,^^ was the answer, spoken in softly 
seductive tones. ‘‘Our interests are the same, and while we 
remain true to one another—'’^ 

“ Hush!’^ The old hag held up a withered forefinger. 
“ Get you gone — the child is waking, and it was mad folly in 
you to bring her here at all. Do you suppose she has no 
memory?’^ 

“Memory! Dear madame, a child like that? She^s not 
waking — she only stirred in her sleep. They were so fond of 
each other, those children she added, with a little sigh that 
heaved itself up in spite of her own will. The elder woman 
turned away, with a contemptuous shrug of her shoulders. 

“ Well, you want no more of me. Take yourselves off; but 
wait until I get out of the way. I don’t like scenes, and if the 
little wretches really were fond of each other — ” 

“ There will be no scene, madame, trust me. You don’t 
know that girl!” 

“ And 1 don’t want to, either, so be good enough to stand 
out of the way!” snarled this modern edition of the Witch of 
Endor, as she limped away, trailing her rich brocade over the 
carpet as she went, like an overdressed doll escaped from its 
show-case. 

The bang with which she closed the silver-hinged door roused 
Clarita from her brief slumbers. She started up, and looked 
wildly around her, scarcely able at first to realize where she 
was. 

“ Mamma, are we to stay here? Is this home, where 
Coralie is?” 

“Home, child!^ What an idea!” echoed Mme. Eomani, 
with a hard, grating laugh. “ Come, you have stayed here 
long enough— quite too long, if you mean to get such notions 
as this in your head!” 

She lifted Clarita down from the chair, and set her on her 
feet. The child took her mother’s hand submissively. 

“ Mayn’t 1 just lift up that piece of lace, and kiss Coralie 
on the mouth once?” she pleaded, with piteous entreaty in 
her eyes. 


2 


34 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


“ No. Come, I say!"^ 

Clarita obeyed, venturing on no further remonstrance, and 
with one long, lingering gaze at the lovely, flower-wreathed 
little corpse, followed her mother out of the stately, gloomy 
rooms. The servant, occupying a Gothic chair in the hail, 
sprung briskly up to let them out, and in another moment 
they were once more in the carriage, rattling over the stony 
city pavements. 

To Clarita it seemed as if the last two hours in her life were 
like the enchanted lapses of a dream. She had been with 
Coralie — she had seen once more her little dead sister — she 
had walked through rooms whose magnificence seemed to her 
like the storied legends of Aladdin^s Palace — and then it had 
all faded away, and vanished. 

“ Mamma,^^ she said, ‘‘ where are we going now? It all 
seems so strange!’^ 

“We are going home.-'^ 

“ Where is home?^^ 

“ How can 1 tell you, you tiresome child? Why, home is 
where we are always going to live, you and 

“ And never travel about any more?^^ 

“I have told you never to mention this past life again! 
Do you mean to obey me or not?^" 

“ Yes, mamma, 1 do,^^ and Clarita shrunk away from her 
mother^s incensed look. 

And she asked no more questions until the carriage, sudden- 
ly driving into a narrow and obscure street, with rows of small 
brown brick houses on either side, stopped at one somewhere 
in the middle of the block. 

“ Is this the place, ma^am?’^ bawled the coachman. “ IPs 
No. 28, so far as I can make out, but there’s no light inside, 
and they never lights the gas in these here blind streets until 
it’s pitch dark, no more they do!” 

“ Yes; this is the place.” 

Mme. Romani once more alighted, giving noisy directions 
about her baggage, while Clarita stood, sleepy and bewildered, 
on the steps, until she found herself dragged up the steps and 
into the house. 

A tall skinny woman, bearing a candle in her hand, had 
admitted them. 

“Oh! it’s you, is it. Miss Romney,” said she, “and your 
little gal? It was gettin’ so late I began to think you wasn’t 
cornin’.” 

“ Yes, 1 got a little belated,” explained the new-comer. 
“ Are the rooms ready?” 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


35 


Yes, they are ready. I swept and dusted them myself 
this very morning — you can^fc never depend on servants. Wait 
a minute and Til light the gas.^’ 

It was a rather necessary operation, for the candle had gone 
out in a sudden draught of wind from the door, and the entry 
and staircase were wrapped in more than Egyptian darkness. 

But the light flamed up again presently, and Mme. Komani 
led her daughter up the narrow rag-carpeted stairs to the 
second floor, where an open door led into a large room, with 
two windows on the street; and a cooking stove, ornamented 
clumsily to deceive the looker-on with an idea that it was a 
parlor stove, and entirely unconnected with culinary affairs, 
was set into the fire-place, so that its pipe disappeared in the 
narrow flue of the chimney. The paper on the walls was 
coarse and cheap, the carpet worn almost threadbare in many 
places, and the furniture, evidently jumbled incongruously 
together from a second-hand establishment. A tall, four-post 
bed, covered with a brilliant patch- work quilt, occupied the 
place of honor, and half a dozen high-colored engravings, 
framed in pine wood, stained, of a dark tint, hung round the 
walls. 

“There,” said the woman, lighting the gas-burner, which 
extended at right angles with the wall. “ ITl send Bridget 
up to make your fire any minute you like — or, if you would 
prefer. I’ll send you up a little bread and butter, and a cup of 
good, strong green tea, such as 1 like myself.” 

“ I think I would prefer that,” said Mme. Eomani. “ It’s 
a warm night, and 1 don’t quite like a hot fire here.” 

“ It’ll be extras,” said the woman, pausing doubtfully on 
the threshold of the door, “ but — ” 

“ Ah! certainly, certainly; I shall not fail to remember all 
your kindness,” said Mme. Komani, untying her bonnet- 
strings before the glass on top of the old-fashioned bureau. 

As the woman’s retreating footsteps died away on the stair- 
case, the mother turned to her daughter: 

“ Well, Clarita, how do you like it?” 

“ Mamma, is this home?” 

“Yes.” 

Clarita looked disappointed. 

“ 1 don’t like it at all. It’s dirty, and lonesome, and 
dingy, and — ” 

“ There, there, child, stop! I’m tired enough myself, 
without being bothered with your complainings. It’s all the 
home you’irhave, and you must just put up with it, whether 
you are pleased or not. And, by the way, Clarita, I forgot to 


36 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


tell you. We are not Mme. Eomani and her daughter any 
more — we are Mrs. Eomney and Eita. Do you hear? Your 
name is Eita now. 

‘‘ Yes, mamma. 

‘^Then do go and lie down — stay, 1^11 lift you upon this 
bed; ifc^s too high for you to get up by yourself. Go to sleep, 
and Fll wake you up when the time comes. 

And this was Clarita^s new home! A cheerless place, in- 
deed, thought the poor, wearied-out child, but she was too 
drowsy and exhausted to do aught but fall into a heavy sleep, 
almost the moment that her head touched the pillow. 


CHAPTEE V. 

A NEW ACTOR APPEARS ON THE STAGE. 

The next day or two were monotonous enough to poor 
Clarita, who was left entirely alone, except at meal- times and 
at night, to amuse herself as best she might. 

There was little in the front street to attract her attention, 
and when she ventured down-stairs the woman of the house 
sharply bade her “ go back to her own room — she didu^t like 
little girls 

And so Clarita fell back on the society of a mangy white 
kitten, which she had discovered in the box of coals back of 
the staircase, and hugged it, talked to it, and cried over it, in 
the loneliness of her soul. 

What she would have done without the kitten, it is hard to 
say — it supplied her with a motive and an interest for the time 
being. 

Oil the evening of the third day, as Clarita sat on the floor 
fitting a spangled silk pinafore round the neck of the cat, who 
was j list then officiating as her baby, and receiving a tarnished 
wardrobe out of the odds and ends in the child^s trunk, Mme. 
Eomani, or Mrs. Eomney as she now chose to be called, came 
in, flushed and excited, followed by the woman of the house. 

“ I hope, ma^am,^* said Miss Jenney, the landlady aforesaid, ] 

you ain^t no fault to find with the rooms?^^ i 

“It isn^t that. Miss Jenney, said the other, impatiently; ^ 
“ the rooms are quiet enough, and I took them because I I 
thought they loere quiet, and 1 wanted to live a peaceable life, j 
where those that want to annoy me couldn^t follow and find 
out. But it seems Ihn mistaken. 

She sat down and began to fan herself violently with a news- 
paper. 

“ 1 was followed in the street this afternoon, she said, ex- 


THE BELLE OF SAKATOGA. 


37 


i cited ly. “ I gave them the slip and got away, but it isn^t safe 
to stay in this neighborhood much longer, so Fll move to- 
morrow.'’^ 

But, ma’am, a week’s notice or a week’s rent — them’s the 
terms we mentioned, if you remember.” 

“ Yes, yes, I know; it shall all be right.” 

Miss Jenney went down-stairs, murmuring some stereotyped 
civility or other about being sorry to part with such good 
lodgers, while Clarita, who had all her life been accustomed 
to the sudden flights by which her mother contrived to elude 
duns and evade the payment of righteous debts, folded up 
pussy’s pinafore and retied the crumpled yellow ribbon about 
her neck, quite unmoved by the prospect of a change. 

As Mrs. Komney turned to light the gas the door swung 
softly open and a man entered the room — a gentleman, as 
Clarita at first thought, from his gorgeous chains and pins 
and the glitter of his rings. Mrs. Eomney uttered a shriek of 
dismay as the light flared full in his face. 

“ Abel!” 

‘‘ Yes, my dear, it’s me!” said the gentleman, advancing 
lightly into the room, and catching Clarita in his arms as if 
she had been a mere thistle-down. “ Give me a kiss, little 
diamond-eyes. ‘‘I’m your papa.” 

But Clarita struggled desperately against the good-will of 
the stranger. 

” Is he, mamma?” she cried, turning her face away from 
the proffered kiss. “ Mamma, is he my papa?” 

Mrs. Eomney had sat down, pale and trembling. Never in 
all her life had Clarita seen her mother thus affected, and it 
frightened her into dumb silejice. 

The stranger sat her down and walked up to her mother, 
i . affably twirling his mustache. 

I “ Sabrina, my dear, this is a very poor reception of the 
agreeable surprise I have prepared for you. One would almost 
be tempted to imagine that you weren’t glad to see me.” 

“ Why should I be glad?” the woman demanded, with a 
sudden flash in her black eyes. “ You know very well, Abel, 
I would rather see the Evil One himself.” 

“ That’s rather strong language, isn’t it, my dear?” 

” It’s weakness itself to what I feel. Why have you come 
back here? I thought we agreed never to cross one another’s 
pathway again?” 

“ No, you didn’t, my dear. You thought nothing of the 
kind when you ran away so cleverly with the kid, and left me 


3.8 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


to live or die as I pleased. By the bye, she^s grown very 
pretty, eh? I might make her useful to me in time."'^ 

“ You would not take her away from me?^'’ gasped Mrs. 
Komney. 

“ Why shouldn't 1? You didn^t hesitate about taking her 
away from me, if my memory serves me aright, sneered her 
companion, whose light-blue eyes seemed full of mocking 
light. 

The law would not allow her to be taken from me.^^ 
Perhaps not, if you chose to refer the matter to the de- 
cision of the law, but 1 donT think you will do that.'’^ 

“ Abel, look here!^’ Mrs. Eomney had risen, and was ad- 
vancing toward him with eager eyes and a breathless sort of 
manner, still holding Clarita^s hand tightly. “ 1 see what it 
is you want. Pm very poor, but 1 am in your power, and 
you know it. How much money will you take to go away 
and leave us in peace?’^ 

‘‘ No amount of money. As it happens, I^m not in the 
market. 

‘‘ Then what do you waiit?^'’ 

‘‘ E want my little daughter — mine, Sabrina, as well as 
yours, and 1^1 have her. 1 want my revenge, too, and that 
is the way I shall take to obtain it. Pve always heard that 
tigresses love their cubs, and so I suppose you have a corre- 
sponding feeling toward that little elf who is listening so in- 
tently. Come here, little one, to your papa.^^ 

“I wonT!^^ answered Clarita, resolutely. ‘Til stay with 
my mamma 

Mrs. Romney clasped the child, sobbing, to her. The man 
laughed, not displeased. 

“ Some of the old, original spirit about her, eh, Sabrina?’^ 
he said, lightly. “ But 1 say, donT you think it was rather 
shabby of you to run away and leave me as you did, lying at 
the very point of death?^^ 

“No!^' cried his wife, passionately. “After the brutal 
selfishness with which you had always treated me, you had no 
further claims on nie!^^ 

“ My dear, my dear!"^ languidly remonstrated the man. 

“ It is true! Abel, 1 hate you — I will never live with you 
again as your wife, nor will I recognize your claim to aught 
that belongs to me. I defy you!^^ 

“ Do you?^^ A sort of sleepy light flashed from between 
the man^s half-closed lids, as the lightning breaks redly from 
the Summer cloud. “ Then I shall show you that I am not 
to be defied V’ 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


89 


B He rose and took Clarita’s hand. 

V “ Get your bonnet, child.” 

[| “ What are you going to do with her?” 

“ I am going to take her away from you. Henceforward 

( she is my child, and mine alone! Ah, Sabrina,” he added, 
with a sneer, I have spent years searching for you in vain — 
but it is worth enduring all over again for the enjoyment of 
this hour. It comes hard, does it? Well, I meant that it 
should.” 

I Mrs. Eomney rose and tied on, not only Clarita’s bonnet, 
I but her own. 

I ‘‘Very well,” she said, in a low, spiritless tone; “do as 
* you please — but wherever you take that child I shall follow, 
I too.” 

I “If you do,” said the husband, quietly, “ I’ll hand you 
I over to the first policeman we meet. ” 

“ On what charge?” 

“ On the charge of theft. You know very well that when 
i you left me you carried away a hundred dollars from my 
I purse.” 

* “ But it was money of my own earning!” cried Mrs. 

Eomney. 

“ It matters not who earned it — the theft was the same. I 
tell you, my love, you’d better not risk it.” 

( Mrs. Eomney once more sat down, clasping her hands over 
her face. 

“ Let me see,” said the husband, carelessly, “ what is the 
child’s name?” 

“ Her name,” slowly answered the mother, “ is Eita.” 
“Well, come along, then, Eita, my duck — we’ve no time 
I to lose.” 

j Mrs. Eomney nodded, “ Go,” as Clarita looked appealingly 
I at her— there was no choic^ leh her. 

>1, “ But you will at least tell me where you are going to take 

r her?” she said. 

“ That would dull the edge of my revenge too much,” 
demoniacally answered the man. “ No, no, my dear, you’ve 
kept me in the dark long enough; now it’s my turn to give 
V you a dose of the same delightful medicine!” 

And he strode out of the room, leading the bewildered child, 
and turning jealously, as he emerged from the street door, to 
I see that he was not watched nor followed. 

I . Mrs. Eomney sat an instant after he had left her — then she 
I sprung suddenly up, tossed the contents of one of the trunks 


40 


THE BELLE OE SARATOGA. 


out on the floor, until she came to a black serge cloak, lying 
neatly folded near the bottom, with a hood of the same. 

Drawing this over her light muslin dress and veiling herself 
closely, she stole out into the streets, and, taking advantage of 
the summer twilight that was already darkening into night, 
followed the two pedestrians at a safe distance, pausing when 
they paused, and keeping the same interval of space between 
them, lest the watchful eyes of the man should divine her 
purpose. 

But she need not have been so overcautious. After the first 
glance or two, the man seemed to have thrown aside all his 
apprehensions on the subject. Perhaps he thought his threats 
had eflectually terrified his wife from any lingering ideas of 
pursuit — perhaps he really did not care whether she followed 
him or not. At all events, he walked swiftly on, without 
turning his head, while Clarita ran along by his side, her lit- 
tle brain filled with wondering terror. 

At length they stopped at a gaudy, second-rate hotel, whose 
lights flared out across the pavements, and around whose steps 
the usual knot of men were congregated, smoking bad cigars 
and staring idly at the passers-by. And as the tall, fair-haired 
man led the tired child across the threshold they were jostled 
by a bent old woman in a black serge cloak, evidently in a 
hurry to gain the stairs beyond the semi-circular halls, whose 
pavement of black and white marble rang to every footstep. 

Five minutes later the same old woman, sitting crouched 
upon one of the hall chairs, was passed by a servant swinging 
a key on his finger, followed by the fair-haired man and the 
child. 

Neither of the latter noticed her, but the servant did, and 
inwardly resolved that on his way back from showing the new- 
comers to their apartment he would “ beat up them ^ere 
quarters,^"' as he expressed it to himself. 

“ You may send up supper immediately,^^ the man said, as 
he entered the door- way, ‘‘ and hark ye — find out if it is at 
eight precisely that the Boston express leaves. 

Yes, sir.^^ 

And then the door closed. 

“Come now,’^ said the servant, authoritatively, as he 
stopped in front of the rusty-attired old stranger, “ what are 
you waiting here for? Any business?^^ 

“ Please young man,^^ croaked a feeble voice, “ 1 was only 
a-waiting to see Ann Nolan, the laundress, who took a situa- 
tion here two weeks ago come Wednesday morning. 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


41 


“Ann Nolan! Ann Fiddlesticks!^^ repeated the man, in- 
solently. “ There^s no such person in this house. 

“ Isn^t this the Laplace Hotel.^'’^ 

“ No, stupid; it^s the Morent St. Pierre !^^ 

“ Then Vve made a mistake, that^s all,^^ and the old wom- 
an rose with rheumatic slowness from her chair, and hobbled 
away, the servant cautiously watching her out of the door, and 
well down the steps. 

“ Not as there^s anything she could steal, he said to him- 
self; “ but a fellow can never be too cautious with these low 
tramps around. 

There was no trace of any rheumatic affliction, however, in 
the figure that flitted swiftly away, under the gas-lamps the 
next minute, with the light of an exultant smile playing un- 
der the closely drawn black veil. Mrs. Romney had found 
out all she wanted to know. 

The depot on the corner of Fourth Avenue and Twenty- 
seventh Street was full the next morning, just before the time 
for the Eastern train to start; so full, in fact, that nobody 
noticed the old woman in black, with silver spectacles, and 
close, black silk hood, over which hung the folds of an old- 
fashioned embroidered lace veil, who sat in a corner of the 
sofa, with both hands clasped over a covered wicker basket, 
the very heau ideal of sleepy respectability; and when, at the 
last minute, Mr. Abel Sinclair, as he had inscribed his name 
upon the hotel register, rushed into the depot, he nearly fell 
over the wicker basket in his haste. 

“ Sit down here!^^ he said to his little companion, pointing 
to a chair close to one of the marble tables, “ and stay there 
until I get back. 

He glanced at the ticket office; it was surrounded with 
ladies. 

“ Confusion seize them all!^^ he ungallantly muttered. “ 1 
shall have to run through to the other side!^"' 

He was gone scarcely a minute; in fact, it seemed to be a 
still less period of time, but when he rushed panting back, his 
tickets in one hand and his valise in the other, the seat by the 
table was vacant — his little bird had flown! 

“ Here, woman — stewardess he cried to the respectable- 
looking woman in charge of the apartment, “ whereas my lit- 
tle girl? I left her here while 1 went to get my tickets, and 
she’s gone! Look for her, and lose no time — a little, black- 
eyed girl, with long curjs, about six years old! Hurry, hurry! 
don’t you see the cars are running out of the depot?” 

Great was the tumult, and much the running about, the 


42 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


calling, and the searching of all manner of possible and im- 
possible hiding-places, but, nevertheless, in vain. Eita was 
gone! 

For Mrs. Eomney, who had taken the precaution to provide 
herself with two tickets, had beckoned the child to her, whis- 
pered one word in her ear, which made her face light up with 
sudden brilliance, and led her swiftly out upon the platform, 
while Abel Sinclair was reaching his face over somebody else’s 
shoulder at the ticket office, swearing under his breath at the 
unwelcome delay. 

And while he sought frantically for the missing child, she 
was at the self-same moment watching him from the window 
of the car tha,t was thundering round the curve, with the 
woman in the serge cloak sitting next to her. 

So woman^s‘keen subtlety had outwitted man^s resolve! 
And here the curtain falls upon the next ten years of our lit- 
tle heroine^s strange life. 


CHAPTER VI. 

WYCHERLY LEHJ^^OX MEETS CLARA ROMAYHE. 

It was toward the close of a glowing July day, one of those 
hot, intolerable days, when scarcely the leaves seem to stir on 
the tallest trees, and the sun rolls like a huge sphere of molten 
fire through the cloudless pathway of the skies, nor were the 
overcrowded cars on the “ Rensselaer and Saratoga line a 
very enviable sojourning place at four o’clock as they neared 
the fashionable Mecca of the North. Clouds of cindery dust, 
circulating through the narrow aisles, and dealing dismay to 
the hearts of elegantly gotten up young men and fair wearers 
of fresh summer toilets — ventilators that seemed to let in heat 
and exclude all free air, stuffy velvet cushions, from whose 
touch the panting travelers instinctively recoiled, and a gen- 
eral glare of paint, gilding, and veneer — these were the con- 
comitants of travel within, while outside, the cool glimpses of 
pine- thickets, clear streams chattering through wild ravines 
and broad elm shadows lying on red-blossomed clover-fields 
formed a deliberate series of aggravations. 

Close and overheated as were the cars, Wycherly Lennox 
looked provokingly cool, as he sat on the shady side, glancing 
over the pages of a newly cut magazine. Indeed, he always 
looked cool. No one could ever say that they had seen 
Wycherly Lennox in a flurry, or unduly embarrassed, or in- 
deed anything but his calm, self-possessed, languid self, and 
the spotless suit of white linen that he wore, his broad-rimmed 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 43 

Panama hat, and the delicate lavender kid gloves that covered 
his hands added to the refreshing illusion. 

Dust did not seem to settle upon him — envious cinders and 
flying specks of soot passed him by. His opposite neighbor 
was vigorously mopping his wet face with a yellow silk pocket- 
handkerchief, but there was not a drop of moisture on Wycher- 
ly Lennoxes broad, ivory-fair forehead, where the wavy rings 
of brown hair lay as gracefully as if they had just been 
arranged, although he must have been riding nearly two 
hours. 

At thirty Wycherly Lennox was faultlessly handsome as an 
Apollo. 

The frank-faced boy that we saw ten years ago had de- 
veloped into a man who might have served Phidias^’s self for a 
model. 

As he read carelessly on, his eyes turned downward so that 
his long, dark lashes «seemed to rest upon the cheek below, a 
loud, grating voice struck upon his ears — the voice of a wom- 
an, a seat or two further back, upon the opposite side of the 
cars. 

“ There, it^s just as I told you, Clara; it^s as bad here as it 
was ill the other car. We were near the door there, too, and 
1 donT see why you couldnT have been contented where you 
were.^^ 

“ Shall we go back, mamma a soft tone asked, by way 
of answer to the querulous complaints. 

“ Go back, indeed, child! What nonsense! Of course 
weVe got to stay here now, and make the best of it. Where 
is my fan? Unpin my shawl, Clara, and open the window, a 
little wider. Not like that — phew, how the dust comes in! 
Oh, Clara, Clara, I wish you werenT so stupid !^^ 

‘‘ Will this do, mamma?^^ 

“ That^s better. Now find me my salts in the bag — it does 
seem as if my head would split right in two pieces !^^ 

The shrill tones of the elder woman had not been particu- 
larly heeded by our hero, but the gentle voice that replied 
struck upon his senses with a strangely familiar cadence. He 
looked up from his book, and actually made the effort of 
turning half-way round to see who the speaker was. 

Where have 1 heard that voice before?^'’ he thought. 1 
am not often mistaken where a question of memory is involved, 
and 1 am sure that is a familiar tone. 

The back of the elder lady was toward him, and he could 
see only a thin barege shawl and a black lace bonnet, loaded 
with clusters of scarlet poppies which nodded back and forth 


44 


THE BELLE OE SAKATOGA. 


ill the oscillations of a gaudy Chinese fan wielded by their 
wearer. 

The face of the one who had been called Clara was, how- 
ever, turned directly toward him. 

She was a tall, slender girl, in the first freshness of early 
youth, with a complexion clear and brilliant as a newly blos- 
somed rose, magnificent blue-black hair coiled round and 
round the back of her small head in lustrous silken ropes be- 
neath the brim of a round hat of cheap straw, and eyes large, 
soft, and languishing, with a sort of sleepy fire lying lambent 
beneath thick, black lashes. 

Her eyebrows, black, and sharply defined in the middle, 
tapered down to a mere ebon thread on either side, and seemed 
like perfect arches carved in jet. Her lips were full and 
scarlet, and her small, straight nose was absolutely faultless 
in its proportion. It was more than a pretty face — it was 
beautiful, startlingly so— a face men would turn to look after 
with a species of marveling wonder tis its pure, perfect oval 
flashed past them— a face to dream of and rave about and 
deify. 

Wycherly Lennox, calm, dispassionate man of the world 
though he was, felt its power, and wondered at the sudden 
thrill that leaped through his veins as the soft, melting eyes 
met his for an instant with the indifferent glance which 
stranger awards to stranger, and then were withdrawn. 

She was very plainly dressed in a black alpaca traveling 
suit which had apparently seen its best days long ago, a hat 
whose sole decoration was a bunch of pink rose buds, pinned 
into the front, and a pair of mended kid gloves. A blue veil 
and a white alpaca parasol lay in her lap, and beneath the folds 
of her dress a kid boot, buttoned at the side, displayed a nar- 
row foot whose high-arched instep might have been envied by 
the haughtiest daughter of wealth. 

“ By Jove!^^ thought Wycherly to himself, “ she^s as beau- 
tiful as Helen of Troy. Hot a Hew York face, either. 1 
wonder whom she can be.^^ 

‘‘ Mamma, said the girl, in a low voice, quite unconscious 
of the eager gaze directed toward her from the opposite side 
of the car, “ where is the little black reticule? Have you got 
it?^^ 

“ Have I got it? Ho, certainly not. Where can it possibly 
be? Why didnT you take care of it, Clara?^^ 

‘‘You took it yourself, mamma. It must have been left in 
the back car.^^ 

“ In the back car? Good gracious! Then, of course, some- 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


4S 


body has stolen it. Go back, Clara, this minute, and see if 
you can find it. I never saw such carelessness in all my life.^’ 

In an instant Wycherly Lenuox had made his way through 
the narrow aisles — where a small boy was selling peanuts, and 
a conductor wrangling with an old lady on the subject of a 
lost ticket — and stood before the ill-assorted pair, lifting his 
hat gracefully from his head. 

“ I beg your pardon, madame,^^ he said, courteously, to the 
elder lady, “ but you seem to have mislaid something. Pray, 
allow me to be of use.'^^ 

The mother, as Wycherly Lennox saw, now that he stood 
opposite to her, was by no means the daughter's counterpart 
in feminine attraction. 

She was coarse, with large hazel eyes, a very flushed face, 
and thick, black hair, with a silver thread gleaming through 
it here and there, and her dress, shabby like her daughter^ 
had not the redeeming quality of neatness that distinguished 
the latter^s attire. 

As Wycherly spoke, her white teeth — evidently false — glit- 
tered in a fulsome smile. Apparently she was not displeased 
at the encounter. 

“You are very kind, sir. Pm sure,’^ she said, smoothly; 
“ my daughter — I tell you, Clara, I did give it in your charge 
— has been so unfortunate as to leave a reticule in the other 
car — the car just back of us, the second seat from the door on 
the right-hand side as you go in, and — 

“ I shall be happy to bring it to you, madame. What sort 
of a reticule was it?^^ 

“ Black, with steel clasps and a steel chain, sir; if you 
would be so kind I'm sure we should be extremely obliged. 

But Mr. Lennox did not wait for the simpering conclusion 
of the sentence before he was gone. 

“ A very gentlemanly person, Clara, remarked the lady, 
plying her fan more vigorously than ever. “ I wonder who 
he is? Do you suppose he is bound for Saratoga, too?^^ 

“ I am sure I donT know, mamma. 

“ Did you notice the diamond ring on his little finger? 
Each stone would make a solitaire — and real diamond shirt- 
studs, too! He^s somebody, depend upon it, Clara! it^s worth 
one^s while to find out something about him.^^ 

The girl frowned slightly, and bit her lips; but she leaned 
forward to look out of the car window, without replying in 
any manner. 

“I wish you^'d ever show a little interest in what I^m say- 


46 


the belle OE SARATOGA. 


ing, Clara/" whined the elder lady. ‘‘ It"s enough to discour- 
age a saint, that indifferent way you"ve got."" 

“ Well, mamma, what would you have me say?"" 

‘‘ Nothing — oh, nothing, of course!"" and the speaker com- 
pressed her lips ostentatiously. 

Wycherly Lennox, meanwhile, with the recovered bag in 
his hand, was standing on the platform of the car, racking 
his brain to catch the lost thread of memory. 

Where have we met before?"’ he questioned himself, con- 
tracting' his brows as the provoking truth, now almost within 
the grasp of his recollection, now receding into utter oblivion, 
still continued to mock and evade him, after the fashion of 
things that one is trying to remember. 

“ Stay; I have it now! No, I haven"t, either! It wasn"t 
in New York; no, nor yet in Washington nor Philadelphia. 
Somewhere in the country — it seems as if I could smell the 
grass and fresh air every time I hear her voice. Where could 
it possibly have been? Such a face as that isn"t one readily 
to slip from the memory. If it were a smooth, emotionless 
face, patterned after ten thousand others, one wouldn"t won- 
der so much at not being able at once to locate it. I"m not 
mistaken; I hnoio I’m not mistaken. It was somewhere in 
the country I met her, and in the summer-time, too, and to 
think that I can"t remember any more definitely than that!"" 

He bit his lip with annoyance as he swung himself from 
platform to platform and once more entered the presence of 
the perplexing pair. 

“ I have been successful in reclaiming your reticule, ma- 
dame,” he said, presenting it, with a bow. 

The mother was profuse in her thanks and acknowledg- 
ments; but the daughter said not a word, simply inclining 
her head as he glanced toward her, seemingly expectant of 
some notice. 

His little office of courtesy completed, it would have seemed 
appropriate enough for him to take his departure; but he still 
lingered. 

“ Your seat is very warm here, madame; don"t you find it 
oppressive on the sunny side of the car?"" 

Oh, very oppressive, sir!"" sighed the mother, giving fresh 
impetus to the motion of her Chinese fan. “ The sunshine is 
perfectly intense. I only wonder that I"m able to breathe at 
all."’ 

“ Allow me to offer you my seat on the other side.” 

He took up the bags and parasols as he spoke; the elder 


THE BELLE OF SAKATOGA. 47 

lady, smiling and thanking him in rather a noisy manner, fol- 
lowed. 

‘‘ But my daughter 

I presume this gentleman will exchange seats with her,^^ 
said Wycherly Lennox, composedly, nodding toward the young 
man who had shared his seat with him. 

Nothing in the world had been further from the intention 
or desire of “ this gentleman aforesaid, but, attacked in this 
way, he had hardly the alternative of refusal, and, turning 
very red and angry, he rose up and stalked away, making no 
answer to Wycherly’s polite thanks. 

“Clara! Clara !’^ called the lady, “ here^s a seat for you! 
Come — quick — before any one else gets it!^^ 

The daughter obeyed, and when she was fairly seated, the 
elder of the two turned to Lennox, with a gracious smile. 

“ I beg your pardon, sir,^^ she said, “but you have been 
very kind. 1 presume you are going to Saratoga, as well as 
ourselves?^^ 

“ Yes, madame,^^ he answered, promptly. 

“ I should be very much gratified to know the name of so 
polite a gentleman,^ ^ she went on. 

The girl Clara turned scarlet, and leaned forward as if to 
interpose something; but whatever the words w^ere, she checked 
them on her lip unspoken, as Wycherly Lennox, secretly ex- 
ultant, took out his card. 

The lady read the engraved characters, and looked smil- 
ingly up. 

“ 1 am delighted to make your acquaintance, Mr. Lennox. 
I am so unfortunate as not to have my cards with me, but my 
name is Mrs. Jason Komayne, and this is my daughter, Clara. 

Clara looked up with dark, wistful eyes, half shrinking from 
her mother^’s confident boldness, half appealing to the stranger 
to be exonerated from all blame therein herself. 

Perhaps it was the somewhat singular name; perhaps a 
familiar expression in those large Andalusian eyes that touched 
the hidden spring of the secret chamber of memor}^ but, like 
a sudden inspiration, it came back to him — the low-ceiled, 
“ best chamber in the Wildford Inn — a coarse, hard woman 
standing in the door-way, and a dark-eyed child clinging to 
her hand and crying out: 

“ I wonT go with her! 1 will stay with you!’^ 

Mme. Eomani and her daughter Clarita! Changed and 
altered by the wizard wand of ten revolving years, but still 
Mme. Eomani and Clarita! How could he have been so blind 
as not to discern their identity before? And yet who would 


48 


THE BELLE OF SAKATOGA. 


have recognized in that beautiful maiden of sixteen the little 
fairy of six in her crumpled white dress and soiled shoulder- 
ribbons? 

There was something more conventional in their looks now. 
They had assimilated to the ways of the world, and had ap- 
parently bidden adieu to the roving life of the circus and the 
glitter of the footlights, but there was still a spice of vulgar 
boheniianism in the loud, assured voice and bold gaze of 
“ Mrs. Jason Komayne,^^ although Clara, from her retired 
manner and graceful carriage, might have been brought up on 
the purple pile of a Fifth Avenue carpet from her youth up- 
ward. 

Evidently they neither of them recognized him, and with 
one of those sudden resolutions which we sometimes take, 
heedless of the important consequences for good or evil with 
which they may be fraught, he determined not to enlighten 
them, but rather to meet them on the platform of an entire 
stranger! There was the dawning possibility of an adventure, 
and to Wycherly Lennox, whose whole existence was a craving 
after new sensation and agreeable excitements, a new field 
seemed opening itself. 

He entered into some pleasant desultory conversation with 
his fellow-travelers, leaning over the back of the seat where he 
could watch the penciled shadows of Clara Eomayne^s eye- 
lashes, and the faint color that burned on her cream- white 
cheek as her mother remorselessly monopolized the whole of 
the conversation, relating their adventures at the Catskills, 
whence they had just come, and noisily declaring that Sara- 
toga was, after all, the only place for persons of true refine- 
ment. 

But through it all Wycherly Lennox, conscious of the vant- 
age ground he had gained over his two companions, kept re- 
peating to himself : 

“ I have found out who they are!^^ 


CHAPTEE VIL 

THE DEOPPED LETTER. 

In the noise and confusion of the huge, barn-like depot at 
Saratoga, Mrs. Eomayne found Wycherly Lennoxes quiet ex- 
perience and self-possession of infinite benefit. At first, beset 
with innumerable offers of hacks, carriages, and omnibuses, 
she stood in the midst of the crowd, her black lace bonnet half 
off her head, veil streaming down her back, and her face very 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 49 

red, turning from one to another, while Clara whispered, 
piteously: 

“ Mamma, please, mamma, come out of the crowd; there 
are so many people here, and they stare so!^^ 

“ Hold your tongue, miss!^^ cried the irate mother. “ l^m 
old enough to manage matters for myself, I hope, without any 
of your interference! ‘No/’ to a hackman who was loudly 
chanting the praise of his particular vehicle in the sing-song 
manner peculiar to the generation of hackmen, “ 1 don’t want 
a carriage. 1 want the Congress Hall omnibus. Oh, dear, I 
wish I could see a policeman 

“ Let me take your checks, said Wycherly Lennoxes low, 
clear voice, close to Clara'^s side. “I am going to the Claren- 
don, but I will see you safe in the — 

“ The Clarendon? That’s where we’re going to. Oh, 1 
should be so much obliged to you, Mr. Lennox — a lone woman 
is always put upon.” 

“ Mamma,” interposed Clara, reddening, “ you said Con- 
gress Hall.” 

“ Clara, don’t be a fool! I never said any such thing, or, 
if 1 did, 1 meant the Clarendon, for my poor head spins round 
like a peg-top. There are the checks, Mr. Lennox.” 

And. Wycherly had the pleasure of installing Mrs. Jason 
Eomayne and her daughter in the omnibus belonging to <he 
hotel whither he was bound, and straining his senses to catch 
the remarks she bawled into his ears as the noisy vehicle clat- 
tered over the uneven pavement. 

Once at the Clarendon, he lost sight of them for a few min- 
utes, but presently Mrs. Komayne’s voice — unlike that said by 
Shakespeare to be an excellent thing in woman, inasmuch as 
it was neither soft nor low — chimed on his ears, again in evi- 
dent altercation with some of the hotel servants. 

Having telegraphed some days previous for a first-class 
room,- our provident hero found himself installed in an elegant 
corner apartment on the favorite side of the house, looking out 
upon the grounds and the main street, and furnished with a 
handsome cottage suite and a dark-green carpet; but Mrs. 
Eomayne had apparently been less fortunate. 

“ 1 don’t like it, and I won’t have it!” she asserted, noisily. 
“ A pretty place to put two ladies in — a little hot hole, not 
seven feet square, with the sun pouring in fit to blind a body, 
and only one window! I tell you I’m going down to see the 
clerk about it myself!” 

“ It will be of no use, ma’am,” said the bewildered servant. 
“ The house is runnin’ over full, and — ” 


50 


THE BELLE OF SAEATOGA. 


“ 1 don^t believe a word of it/’ interrupted Mrs. Eomayne. 
“ The idea of expecting people to sleep in such a room as 
that, with the thermometer at ninety in the shade and the 
chimney from the kitchen passing directly through it! You 
neednT tell any more lies — I know perfectly well it^s the 
kitchen chimney, else how comes it so hot? I wonT stay here 
if I canT get a better room I 

“ Indeed, ma^am, I donT think you^ll get better accommo- 
dations any place — the hotels are all crowded full; but ITl 
send you up the clerk^s assistant, ma^am, if youTl step in the 
parlor. 

“ Mamma, began Clara, in a soft, conciliatory voice, ‘‘ the 
room isn^t so very small, and I think we might manage to 
make it do, if — 

Clara, I do wish you^d leave me to take charge of my own 
alfairs,^^ snapped the mother — and the door closed with a 
sound akin to a bang. 

Wycherly Lennox was leisurely proceeding to unlock his 
trunks, when a renewed sound of voices in the corridors with-' 
out betokened that the appeal to the clerk had been unsuc- 
cessful. 

“ It^s impossible — forty dollars a week for that little hole!"" 
complained Mrs. Eomayne. “ Oh, dear, how my head aches 
— I know I shall have a fever or something! Clara, why donT 
you go on faster? Are you going to stand there on the stairs 
all day long?^^ 

Wycherly stood still listening. A sudden thought struck 
him, and he opened the door and stepped out on the landing, 
confronting Mrs. Eomayne, who had just reached the stairway 
opposite his door. 

“ Good gracious! Mr. Lennox, is that you? How you 
startled me!’^ cried she. 

“ Pardon me, Mrs. Eomayne,'’^ began the young man. 
“ but I believe you are dissatisfied with your room. Mine is 
very comfortable, and if you will exchange with me I shall feel 
very highly complimented.^^ 

You are very kind, sir,^^ cried Mrs. Eomayne, with a 
broad smile of satisfaction. Very kind, indeed, but really 
we couldnT think of incommoding you.” 

“It will not incommode me,’^ and as he spoke he threw 
wide open the door of his cool, spacious room, its windows 
open and draped with white muslin which fluttered in the 
evening breeze with a motion which in itself was refreshing. 

“ By no means, sir,^^ said Clara, from her station on the 
stairs. “ Mamma, come !^^ 


THE EELLE OE SARATOGA. 


51 


But Mrs. Eomayne still hesitated and eyed the pleasant 
apartment with covetous glance. Wycherly saw her inde- 
cision, and promptly took advantage of it. 

“ Upon my word, Mrs. Eomayne, youM better oblige me; 
it can make no sort of difference to me what sort of a room I 
occupy; only think how little a gentleman uses his room, ex- 
cept for a mere sleeping place. Miss Eomayne, can't you 
help me to persuade your mother? You can not think how 
much pleasure you would give me by accepting my offer." 

“Thanks," said Clara, coldly; “but your room is one of 
the most desirable, and our means — " 

But Mrs. Eomayne's nods and frowns, and Wycherly Len- 
nox's voice interrupted her at one and the same time. 

“ Oh, that will be all right. I'll see the people of the 
house at once, and have your trunks changed. My room is 
paid for in advance during my stay, so that can make no 
difference." 

(Which was a lie — but Wycherly Lennox was not always 
particular as to the truth.) 

Mrs. Eomayne only smiled and simpered, and declared that 
really it would be an imposition upon him, but she did not re- 
fuse the proffered kindness, and in spite of Clara's whispered 
remonstrances, she went in, and sat fanning herself on the 
low, chintz-draped lounge, while Mr. Lennox, by a word or 
two to the clerk below stairs, effected the consummation so 
devoutly to be wished, and himself took possession of the 
apartment, high up, narrow, and by no means desirable, 
which had at first been destined for the occupancy of Mrs. and 
Miss Eomayne. 

“ Chamber-maid," said Mrs. Eomayne to the neat- looking 
girl in a ruffled white apron, who had just entered with a sup- 
ply of fresh linen towels on her arm, “ what time will tea be 
ready?" 

“ In about three quarters of an hour, ma'am." 

“ So soon? Clara, make haste and get the trunks open!" 

“ Mamma," ejaculated the girl, wearily, “ must I dress to- 
night? I am so tired I" 

“ Dress to-night! of course you must, child! I want your 
first appearance to make a sensation. What do you suppose I 
brought you to Saratoga for?" 

Clara made no answer, but kneeling before the trunks, 
began slowly to lay out the different articles of wearing ap- 
parel, while Mrs. Eomayne commenced her own toilet, bathing 
her red, overheated face in cool water from the ewer, and lib- 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


62 

erally besprinkling it from a little china box, labeled ‘‘ Violet 
Powder. 

‘‘ What a big, cool room this is, to be sure,^^ she said. 

Give me the brushes, child — don^t be all night about it! and 
how exceedingly thoughtful of that charming Mr. Lennox. 
Clara, I think he^s smitten with you.^^ 

“ Nonsense, mamma 

“ I do, really! What else should make him so polite? 
Money seems to be no object at all with him. I know he^s 
rich.^^ 

People can come to Saratoga and wear diamonds without 
being rich, mamma. 

“ Yes; but there ^s a way about him that I can^t be deceived 
in, a manner that can not be described — the manner that be- 
longs to rich people. I tell you, child, I\e lived in the world 
long before you were born, and 1 am not easily mistaken. 
Depend upon it, that^s a catch — and if you play your cards 
well, this may be the best day^s work we ever did in our lives. 

Clara made no answer, but a long, weary sigh, as she went 
on with her task of unpacking. Mrs. Eomayne turned sharp- 
ly round, with a heavy false braid of black hair dangling on 
her hand, looking not unlike a tough old female Indian who 
has taken a scalp. 

‘‘ Put on your white grenadine dress, Clara, and wear the 
pea-green ribbons, with a wreath of hops in your black hair."^’ 
I would rather wear the gray silk, mamma. 

And look like a nun? That would be nice calculations. 
Do as I tell you!^'’ 

There was an imperious ring in her voice that Clara dared 
not disregard, and the white grenadine dress, with its soft, 
shimmering folds, like woven moonlight, was laid out with the 
garland of silver-green hops in its little pasteboard box, and 
the accompanying ribbons; but as she looked down upon the 
array of pretty things, there was none of that innocent girlish 
exultation in her face which should belong to the sweet aspect 
of sixteen, surrounded by the auxiliaries to its own loveliness 
— only a tired, absent sort of look. 

Now, lace my dress, Clara, for Mrs. Eomayne had 
donned a black gauze, embroidered all over with shining 
wheat-ears in yellow silk and trimmed with fluted yellow 
satin ribbons, “ and then hurry up your own dressing. YouTl 
be late — not that I mind being a little behindhand, for one 
attracts more attention for being among the last.'^^ 

Mamma, said Clara, impatiently, ‘‘ you talk as if 1 were 
a mere show, to be put on exhibition. 


THE BELLE OF SAKATOGA. 


53 


“ So you are, child, said Mrs. Komayne, with a broad 
laugh. ‘‘ You^re my stock in trade, and I mean to make a 
good bargain out of you yet! Why, you know as well as I do, 
Clara, that you have a pretty face, and that face is to be our 
fortune! And of course it’s our business to make the most 
capital out of it that we can!” 

The girl dashed down the belt ribbon which she was fasten- 
ing round her mother’s waist. 

“ Don’t talk that way, mamma; it makes me despise my- 
self. I wish I was scarred with the small-pox, like the girl 
who was in here just now.” 

“ You wouldn’t be here if that were the case,” answered 
Mrs. Komayne, calmly adjusting a huge gilt comb among her 
false braids. 

“ Where should I be but with you?” 

“ In a school as under-governess, or companion to some old 
lady, or earning your livelihood in some obscure place. 1 
don’t travel with unremunerative capital!” 

There was something so utterly heartless in this speech, that 
Clara’s heart sunk within her. She did not answer, but stood 
before the glass, slowly taking out, one by one, the pins that 
confined her magnificent blue-black hair, until it fell like a 
veil of shining, rippling blackness around her slender figure, 
almost to the knees. Mrs. Komayne touched it caressingly, 
as if she would fain erase the memory of her last cruel words. 

‘‘ Oh, Clara, my pet, you are so beautiful! Cheer up, girl; 
we shall not always be wanderers upon the face of the earth. 
Your face shall make us rich and happy yet!” 

Clara Komayne’s lip curled, but she was silent. And when 
at last her toilet was complete, and she stood tall and lovely as 
a white camellia in the floating silvery draperies, with the 
green ribbons lying in exquisite contrast against the snowy 
folds, and her face just flushed with the peach-like bloom of 
sixteen, it would be difficult to conceive of a more beautiful 
creature. Mrs. Komayne looked triumphantly at her soft 
eyes, and perfect oval face. 

“ You look like yourself, Clara!” she cried. “ We shall 
win the game yet!” 

“ Are you ready to go down, mamma? It is full ten min- 
utes since the gong sounded.” 

“Yes.” 

Mrs. Komayne took up her lace handkerchief — held skill- 
fully, no one could see how much it was darned and mended 
— and her fan, and turned toward the door. 

As Clara swept along with the languid grace of a queen, the 


54 


THE BEl.LE OF SARATOGA. 


long trail of her dress caught some rustling object on the 
floor. She stooped to pick it up. 

What^s this, mamma — a letter?’^ 

“ 1 haven’t dropped any letter,” said Mrs. Romayne. 
‘‘ Come, Clara, do hurry; I’m perishing for a cup of tea.” 

“ But it is a letter, mamma.” 

Clara advanced toward the fading light of the window and 
held it up. 

“ An opened letter!” 

“Whose?” 

Clara read the superscription slowly: 

“ Wycherly Lennox, Esq., D House, Albany, N. Y.” 

“ Wycherly Lennox!” cried the mother, her whole face 
and form becoming instinct with eager curiosity; “ a letter to 
him?” 

“ Yes, mamma, and in a female handwriting, too.” 

“ Give it to me, quick — let me see it! Noiv we can find out 
who he is, and what he is, and all about him. This is unex- 
pected good luck!” 

But Clara held the missive back from her mother’s out- 
stretched hand. 

“ Mamma, you wouldn’t read it?” 

“Yes, I would. Give it to me this instant, Clara; it’s just 
what I want. How lucky that he happened to drop it here. 
I wonder if he has missed it yet?” 

As Mrs. Romayne advanced, however. Clara drew back into 
the recess of the window curtains, still holding tightly the 
coveted document. 

“ Clara!” ejaculated' the mother, half savagely, half coax- 
ingly, “ give me the letter.” 

“No, mamma; never! After he has been so kind to us, 
would you seek, dishonorably, to pry into his private affairs?” 

“ How dare you speak so to me, girl?” 

“ How dare you ask me to aid you in such a mean act of 
treachery?” 

“ Will you give me that letter?” demanded Mrs. Romayne, 
in a voice fairly choked with passion. 

“ No!” Clara answered, defiantly. 

Mrs. Romayne pleaded no further, but made a swift, dart- 
ing movement to seize it from her daughter’s hand. 

in the same instant, Clara, with an eye quick to detect the 
other’s intent, had torn it into a score of pieces and thrown 
it recklessly to the soft summer wind without. 

“ There!” she cried, with eyes luminous and defiant. 

Mrs. Romayne stood an instant, white with rage, looking 


THE BELLE OF SAEATOGA. 


55 


silently at her daughter. Then, as if conscious that further 
altercation would be useless, she turned away, saying: 

“ Come, let us go down to tea. But,^^ she added, speaking 
through her clinched teeth, “ you’ll live to repent the day you 
did that deed — you’ll live to repent it, Clara Eomayne, see if 
you don’t!” 

They were the words of prophecy. Clara Eomayne did live 
to repent the deed from the very bottom of her heart. 

How little do we all know the vital moments of our several 
destinies; how idly we cast aside the clews that are extended 
to our blind gropings by the warning hand of Fate! Had 
Clara Eomayne been less scrupulously honorable, and read the 
letter whose myriad fragments were being idly scattered about 
by the capricious movement of the breeze, it would have 
turned the whole course and current of her life. 

But she, knowing nothing of the cloud which hung black 
and lowering over the horizon of her young existence, passed 
on down the broad stairway of the hotel, conscious only of 
her youth and freshness and exceeding loveliness. 

Nevertheless, even in this moment of her involuntary self- 
assertion, her mother’s passion-choked words rang in her 
ears, ever and anon, haunting her like the sound of a far-off 
knell : 

“ You’ll live to repent the day you did that deed — you’ll 
live to repent it, Clara Eomayne!” 

Eepent it! Words are powerless to tell how deeply she re- 
pented it — with all the bloom and beauty and elasticity of her 
life. It is well that our faltering hands are not permitted to 
turn the leaves of Fate’s book, and scan the records of the 
unacted future! For if she herself had known all that was 
ill store for her, she might almost have been willing — nay, 
even prayed — to rest her head upon her pillow that July 
night, when the golden stars were quivering overhead and 
earth seemed so full of promise and gladness, never to raise it 
again. 

Clara Eomayne did live to repent it! 


CHAPTEE VIIL 

THE BALL-DRESS. 

Mrs. Jasoh Eomayne’s ambitious desires were gratified. 
Clara’s entrance into the crowded dining-room was accom- 
panied by a universal turning of heads, and that low, inarticu- 
late murmur which denotes a “ sensation;” and as the tall. 


56 


THE BELLE OF SAEATOGA. 


beautiful girl swept down the narrow aisle between the tables, 
with a sort of graceful haughtiness, apparently quite indifferent 
as to whether she was noticed or not, her mother ^s heart 
swelled high with pride. 

“ Who are they?"^ passed, in a whisper, from table to table, 
and no end of conjectures were hazarded respecting the new 
arrival. 

But Mrs. Eomayne, wisely deeming it politic not to allow 
the vividness of the first impression to be immediately effaced, 
spent the evening in her own room, where poor Clara nearly 
fell asleep trimming her mother^s coiffures and mending her 
laces until eleven o^clock at night. 

The picturesque little mineral spring in the grounds of the 
hotel was thronged, at six o^'clock the next morning, by ardent 
votaries of health, who desired to drink the sparkling waters, 
and fashionable saunterers who came thither merely to display 
their toilets or watch the gay throng, when Miss Eomayne, in 
an exquisite white muslin wrapper, and a white veil thrown 
Spanish fashion on her head, came up to the railed inclosure, 
carelessly tapping the ground with her parasol, as if utterly 
unconscious of the general gaze that saluted her. 

Clara was lovelier than ever in the trying glare and uncom- 
promising sunshine of the summer morning. Her complex- 
ion, delicate as the satin petal of a damask rose, glowed with 
bloom and freshness; her lovely blue-black hair seemed as if 
its heavy coils must weigh down the small, aristocratic head, 
and the simple ornaments of carved bog-oak that she wore set 
more elaborate decorations at defiance, while beneath their 
languid, drooping lids her large eyes shone and glittered with 
almost Oriental fire. 

“ Why, it^s the beauty that da\yned upon us last night 
ejaculated a young Southerner. “ By Jove! she^s a perfect 
Cleopatra! I looked over their names in the book last night. 
It^s Mrs. Jason Eomayne and Miss Eomayne. 

“Eomayne — Eomayne !^^ repeated his companion, whose 
fading charms, heightened as they were with rouge and pearl 
powder, wore an almost ghastly look in the fresh morning air. 
“ I donT know the name. Probably they are nobodies. 

“ What a beautiful face!^^ exclaimed another gentleman. 
“ It^s simply perfect !^^ 

“ A dolPs face, red and white, with big black beads for 
eyes,^’ contemptuously retorted his lady friend. “ There^s 
no expression whatever there. 

“ She is a mere child yet,'’^ a third chimed in; “ but by the 
shades of Venus! sheTl be the loveliest creature the sun ever 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 57 

shone upon in another two years! 1 wonder who knows her? 
I^d give half l^m worth for an introduction!’^ 

‘‘ How enthusiastic!” tittered a blonde belle. ‘‘ Gentlemen 
are always wild after a new face. I wish mine was new.” 

‘‘So it was, ten years ago,” said her brother, maliciously. 
“ Halloo! there’s a lucky fellow talking to her. Say— does 
anybody know that chap in the gray suit? I’ve a notion he’d 
be a nice fellow to know, and besides, he could introduce me 
to that stunner of a girl!” 

Wycherly Lennox was talking in a low, absorbed voice to 
Clara, as she drank the glass of sulphur-smelling water he had 
brought her, utterly unconscious of the murmur of tongues 
that was going on around her, and careless of the critical 
glances that were leveled at her. 

Clara Eomayne had always stood alone — always fought her 
own battles, always brought up to regard all the world as her 
enemy; and that quiet mien of haughty indifference was not 
altogether feigned. She cared not a whit that the women 
eyed her supiciously, calling her frank gaze “ bold ” and her 
royal hauteur “ affectation,” nor did she care much more that 
the gentlemen, one and all, were ready to fall down. and wor- 
ship her superb type of beauty. 

And yet Clara Eomayne had a warm and loving heart, which 
flashed up into existence sometimes in spite of the false and 
hollow mode of life which had done so much toward fossiliz- 
ing it. 

Mrs. Eomayne was peeping down through the blinds of her 
window as her daughter came up the steps of the piazza, with 
Wycherly Lennox’s handsome head bent low to catch her care- 
lessly uttered words, and an exultant smile crept over the hard 
lineaments of her face. 

“ If ever man was in love, he is,” she thought. “ Clara 
has won a golden prize at last. Well, well, it’s time she did, 
for I’m tired of this miserable life. I wonder if there’ll be 
time for another nap before breakfast?” 

In three days more Clara Eomayne was the acknowledged 
belle of Saratoga, courted, worshiped, and feted on every side. 
Her calm, indifferent way seemed only to render her more be- 
witching to the languid votaries of fashion, and those who had 
achieved a reputation for beauty previous to her arrival re- 
ceived their total dethronement in that malicious, spiteful way 
peculiar to the race of womankind. 

“ She hasn’t a single nice set of jewelry,” said Mrs. Ogden 
Hathaway, giving her own coral ear-drops a shake. 

“ And her dress is pointedly dowdy,” echoed Mrs. Wharton 


o8 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


Graves, whose own daughter had been sorely eclipsed by the 
brilliant brunette. 

“ Only think of it: the white grenadine, and the pearl-gray 
silk, and the pink chine — and the pink chine and the pearl- 
gray silk, and the white grenadine over and over again! AVho 
ever heard of coming to Saratoga with such an outfit as that 

“ Oh, she don^t care for dress,^^ said Miss Aurora Graves, 
bitterly. ‘‘ Neither do the gentlemen care what she wears, as 
long as she can roll her big eyes at them and let her hair tum- 
ble down every five minutes just to show that it isn^t false I’"’ 

‘‘ That mother of hers is a frightfully vulgar woman, said 
Mrs. Hathaway. “ I caiiT imagine where on earth she can 
have come from. I was quizzing her a little, yesterday morn- 
ing, but much as she talks on other subjects, she is totally 
uncommunicative as to their origin and previous life.-^^ 
Whereas Mr. Jason Eomayne?^^ asked Mrs. Graves. 

“ Why, isnT she a widow? I supposed she was. 

‘‘ Eeally, I donT know. Here comes Mr. Lennox — perhaps 
he will know. ’’ 

And as Wycherly Lennox sauntered toward the group Miss 
Aurora addressed him with a child-like playfulness that was 
quite bewitching in a young thing of seven-and-twenty. 

‘‘ Mr. Lennox, do come here. You are the very person we 
wanted to see.^^ 

Wycherly bowed low. 

“ In what manner can 1 be useful to you?^^ 

“ You can read us the riddle that is puzzling half Saratoga 
— you can tell us about that bee-yu-ti-ful Lalla Eookh of a 
Miss Eomayne and her mother. Who are they?” 

‘‘ Who are they?” Wycherly inquired, biting his lips. 
“ Why, they are Mrs. Jason Eomayne and her daughter. Miss 
Clara.” 

“You provoking creature!” cried Aurora, archly, tapping 
his cheek with her fan. “As if we didn’t all know that. 
But where are they from?” 

“ Latterly from the Catskills— originally from New Or- 
leans.” 

“ 1 thought she looked like a Southerner,” said Mrs. Hath- 
away.” 

“ Are they to remain long in Saratoga?” resumed Aurora, 
striking in once more, as Wycherly Lennox showed some signs 
of moving. 

“ 1 do not know. I am not in their confidence.” 

“ Indeed! are you sure you are telling the truth?” giggled 


THE BELLE OF SAKATOGA. 


59 


Mrs. Graves. ‘‘A little bird tells us that you are in their 
confidence. 

‘‘ Then the little bird ought to have its neck wrung for an 
arrant liar.'’^ 

But do you really think her so very beautiful? IsnT she 
just a leeile affected persisted Miss Graves. 

“ Yes; if yonder queenly lily on its stem is affected; or if 
the rose in your hair is affected/^ Lennox answered, enthusi- 
astically. 

“Dear nie!^^ laughed Aurora, “yours is really a hopeless 
case. People repent in time. And when are we to congratu- 
late you?^^ 

“ Upon what?^^ demanded Lennox, looking her directly in 
the eyes. 

Aurora^s gaze fell beneath his. 

“You gentlemen are so shockingly matter-of-fact,^'’ she 
said, coloring a little beneath the outer layer of carmine which 
glowed on her cheek. “No matter upon what.'’^ 

And Wycherly Lennox walked away, half amused, half an- 
noyed. 

“ I never saw the equal of a pack of women for gossiping!’^ 
he muttered to himself. “ However, let them talk, as long 
as Clara donT hear it.’^ 

He looked anxiously up and down the long parlor, which 
was almost deserted at that time of day, but the young lady in 
question was nowhere to be seen. 

“ Hang it!’^ muttered Lennox, discontentedly, “ what is a 
fellow to do for the next two hours?’ ^ 

And he started at the thought that Miss Eomayne’s society 
was becoming so absolutely necessary to him. 

“I’m not in love, am 1?” he thought, uneasily. “By 
Jove! that’s nonsense— it’s utterly out of the question! I in 
love! Ha! ha! ha!” 

But there was something spasmodic in the laugh that jarred 
on the cool summer air. 

“ Had I better leave Saratoga at once, and break through 
the gradually strengthening meshes of this snare?” was the 
next question that he put to himself, and the answer rose in- 
stantaneously to the surface of his mind. 

“Pooh! There can’t be any possible danger, and a man 
may as well enjoy himself when he can. I wonder where she 
can possibly be, though? If I thought she had gone to the 
lake with Harvey St. Aubyn — but no, she never goes out at 
this time of day, thanks to mamma’s precious care of her com- 
plexion. I’ll go and have a smoke under the trees,” 


60 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


Clara Eomayne was in her own room sewing wide strips of 
glimmering gold tissue up the skirt of her white grenadine 
dress, in preparation for the ‘‘ hop of the night, for, as Mrs. 
Wharton Graves had insinuated, our poor little heroine’s 
wardrobe was of the scantiest, and some change was absolutely 
imperative. 

Wycherly Lennox had asked her two or three days before to 
allow him to become her escort to this gathering, and she had 
quietly announced her resolution not to go.’’ 

‘‘But why not?” he had questioned. 

“ Oh, Fm tired of these senseless assemblies!” 

“ Tired?” he echoed. “ Is the lady moon tired of shining? 
Is the brightest star in all the firmament weary of giving light? 
You must go. Miss Eomayne.” 

“ I can not.” 

“ You have not yet given me a sufficient reason.” 

“ Then I will do so now,” she answered, coloring a little, 
and smiling. “ It is because 1 have nothing to wear.” 

“ Oh, Miss Eomayne, what a misrepresentation! Your 
white dress that looks like the folds of vapor floating olf yon- 
der mountain-sides!” 

“ I have worn that dress seven times already. Mrs. Pearl 
Eathburne will certainly have an attack of epilepsy if I wear it 
again. Didn’t you hear her telling somebody at tea-table last 
night how she always gave her dress to her maid when she 
had worn it three times? And didn’t you see her looking 
straight at poor little me?” 

“ Hang Mrs. Pearl Eathburne!” 

“ With all my heart, but that won’t alter circumstances,” 
laughed Clara. 

“ Your pink dress, then^ — the dress that is just the color of 
an oleander blossom. Brunettes, like you, should never wear 
anything but pink.” 

“I’ve worn it to a hop, a tableau vivant, and to dinner 
times innumerable.” 

“ Your gray silk.” 

“ Gray, indeed, like a nun! No, indeed, Mr. Lennox. The 
laws of fashion, like those of the Medes and Persians, can not 
be changed, and I am not brave enough to outrage them. ” 

“But, Miss Eomayne, you must attend this hop, or I shall 
not enjoy it.” 

“ Haven’t I proved to you conclusively that it is out of the 
question?” 

Lennox said no more; but that evening, while Clara was 
down-stairs, a bundle was brought to Mrs. Eomayne’s room. 


THE BELLE OF SAKATOGA. 61 

with a card pinned to it, containing simply the words: “ The 
gift of a good fairy to wear at the hop/^ 

The parcel was directed to her daughter; but Mrs. Ro- 
mayne, unscrupulous in little things as she was in great ones, 
opened it without hesitation, and beheld folds upon folds of 
white tissue, strewn all over with tiny ivy leaves of gold. 

“ Now, that’s very considerate of Mr. Lennox,” though the 
matron, with a beaming countenance — ““ very, indeed; and I 
won’t let Clara know a thing about it until the dress is made 
up, for it would be j'ust like her caprice to refuse to accept it. ” 

So pondering, the wary matron refolded the expensive and 
delicate fabric, tied it carefully up, and, taking a dress of 
Clara’s as a pattern, made the best of her way to the nearest 
dress-maker’s. 

Consequently, it happened that when Clara was working 
diligently to furbish up the white grenadine into something 
like novelty, there came a tap at the door and a parcel from 
Miss Nidcombe’s. 

“ Mamma, what is that?” cried Clara, as her mother tri- 
umphantly began to unpin the envelopes. 

Mrs. Romayne held up the dress, a glittering mass of white 
and gold. 

“ What do you think of that for a ball-dress — eh, Clara?” 

It is not for me, mamma?” exclaimed the girl, incredu- 
lously. 

“ Yes, it is for you.” 

“ Where did it come from?” 

Mrs. Romayne hesitated. Clara was too well acquainted 
with the slender state of her finances for her to venture upoii 
the fiction of having herself bought it, and she scarcely knew 
what else to say. 

“ Mamma,” reiterated Clara, ‘‘ where did it come from?” 

“ A good fairy sent it to us, child,” laughed Mrs. Romayne, 
trying not to appear discomposed. 

Clara sprung to her feet with hot cheeks. 

“ Mother, did Mr. Lennox send it?” 

“ Well, yes; he did send it, if you must know. Wasn’t it 
kind of him?” 

“ Mamma, I will never wear it!” 

“Nonsense, Clara,” cried her mother, angrily; “he is 
rich, he will never miss it. ” 

“ But 1 am not a pensioner upon his bounty.’^ 

“ Clara, how foolish you are! Why shouldn’t you accept a 
dress from him, as well as books and bonbons, and baskets of 
flowers?” 


62 


THE BELLE OF SAKATOGA. 


“ This is a very different thing, mamma; send it back to 
him. 1 insist upon it!^^ 

‘‘But the dress is all made up, Clara. And heTl be so 
hurt.^^ 

Clara paused, with her hand upon her tumultuously beating 
heart. 

“ Mamma, she said, “ you have been very, very wrong. 
Why didiiT you tell me when it first arrived?^^ 

“ Because I anticipated some such fuss, and was determined 
you should not fly in the face of your own good fortune. 

“ Good fortune the girl repeated, bitterly. “ Mamma, 
I wish 1 could go away from here, and be a farmer’s drudge, 
or a milk-maid, or nurse to some little children — anything, 
anything but the humiliated creature I am! It makes me de- 
spise myself — it makes me despise you!” 

Mrs. Romayne put her handkerchief to her eyes, and began 
to whimper. 

“ Go on, Clara, ’’she faltered, “ go on; abuse your poor old 
mother all you can, just because she’s tried her best for you! 
Go on; I can bear it.” 

Clara’s heart was softened at once. She threw her arms 
about Mrs. Romayne’s neck. 

“ 1 didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, mamma; I dare say 
you thought it was all for the best, only I am sorry you had 
the dress made up without consulting me. DonT cry, mam- 
ma, darling! I suppose I shall have to wear it now.” 

Mrs. Romayne’s face came out from behind its eclipse of 
pocket-fcandkerchief, which had not been bedewed with many 
real tears. 

“ Then you will be sensible, child, and wear it? Only think 
how becoming it will be to you! And, really, all the gold rib- 
bon in creation couldn’t have made anything but an old hack 
out of your white grenadine!” 

So the matter was decided; but at tea that evening Clara 
walked straight up to Wycherly Lennox. 

“ It was very kind of you to send me that dress, Mr. Len- 
nox,” she said; “ I never knew of it until to-day. But you 
must never do such a thing again. I do not like to receive 
such expensive presents from gentlemen.” 

“ It was a mere trifle. Miss Romayne.” 

“ Whatever it was, it mustn’t happen again.” 

“ You will wear it to-night? I was sure it would be becom- 
ing. ” 

“ Yes,! will wear it. Mamma insists upon it.” 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 63 

And Lennoxes look of delighted gratification almost melted 
the icy annoyance at her heart. 


CHAPTEE IX. 

THE HOP AT SARATOGA. 

The great ball-room was one glitter of brilliant chandeliers, 
festoons of flowers, and decorations of evergreens, that night, 
when Miss Eomayne entered, leaning upon the arm of her 
constant cavalier, Mr. Wycherly Lennox. 

The band was performing one of Godfrey's deliciously 
mournful waltzes, and the softened accents of the ophicleide, 
French horn, and bugle filled the air with wailing pulses of 
melody, while a few couples were already whirling round and 
round upon the well- waxed floor, with a brilliant, semicircular 
throng eying their swift evolutions. 

Clara Eomayne looked very lovely on this particular night. 
Her dress, with its white floating folds all sprinkled with tiny 
leaves of gold, relieved her dark style of beauty, while the two 
or three sprays of white jasmine that she wore in her hair 
added to the tropical effect of her almond-shaped eyes and 
glossy tresses. A bouquet of white roses and geranium leaves 
hung by a broad, white ribbon from her belt, but otherwise 
she was entirely without ornament of any kind. 

Wycherly Lennox felt a thrill of pride at the murmur of 
irrepressible admiration that arose on every side as he led his 
beautiful companion into the room. A spice of malicious 
gratification mingled with his feelings as he noticed the envious 
glances with which the gentlemen regarded him — him, the 
fortunate possessor, for one evening at least, of the belle of 
the room. 

Mrs. Eomayne, sitting against the wall in the background, 
attired in Clara^s gray silk skirt and a puffed lace waist, which 
made her look ten times redder and more vulgar than before, 
as she vigorously fanned herself, regarded her daughter's tri- 
umphal entree with no less satisfaction. 

Let me put my name down on your card for at least six 
dances. Miss Eomayne/^ said Lennox, laughing, as he led her 
to a seat; “ because, if eyes can speak, and speak truth, my 
right to your companionship is likely to be disputed by sev- 
eral of these gentlemen in the course of the evening. 

Clara handed him the bit of white and gold pasteboard 
which hung from her gloved wrist, without any special ac- 
knowledgment of the implied compliment. She did not like 
flattery, nor anything which approached to it. 


64 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


T^nty-five dances!^^ she ejaculated, glancing languidly 
at her card: “ 1 shall not dance half these. 

But you will give me those 1 have marked he pleaded. 

“ Oh, yes, I suppose so,^^ she replied, indifferently. 

And Wycherly Lennox stood momentarily aside as several 
other gentlemen, to whom Miss Eomayne had at various times 
been introduced, came up to ask the privilege of being her 
partner in this or that dance. 

Clara^s card was full before those of the other young as- 
pirants to ball-room fame were marked with more than one or 
two names; nor did this circumstance add to her popularity 
among the ladies present. 

I, for one, don^t fancy that style of face,^'’ observed a 
damsel, whose cavalier had just asked Miss Eomayne to dance. 
‘‘ Don^t you think, dear,^^ to a companion, ‘‘she looks as if 
she had been an actress 

“ An actress at sixteen? Impossible 

“ Oh, but that^s all nonsense about her being sixteen. She 
is older than that; she must be. Look at the self-possession 
of her manners 

“ At all events, she seems to possess the magic power to 
captivate all the gentlemen. See them crowd around her 
when she returns from a dance. 

Miss Jessie Arden bit her lips. It was not pleasant to sit 
by and witness the triumph of a rival. 

The long evening passed away, and every hour performed 
its part in completing the infatuation which was gradually 
taking possession of Wycherly Lennoxes heart. 

Eight, reason, common sense were alike vanquished by Miss 
Eomayne^s wonderful beauty. 

As he watched her floating gracefully through the mazes of 
the dance, her cheeks just tinted with the brightest rose color 
and her eyes liquid with velvety softness, or when she sat be- 
side him, where he might study the pure, perfect lines of her 
face, as he talked to her, he kept repeating to himself: 

“ I never saw so beautiful a creature in my life!^^ 

And the mad desire to possess this royal treasure for him- 
self, to win it and wear it, were stronger and more passionate 
in his breast the while. 

“I care not for the consequences,’^ he thought, with the 
pulses of his heart keeping time to Clara’s swaying footsteps 
in that most graceful of all dances, the redowa waltz. “ I 
must have her, my dark-eyed enchantress, my matchless jewel, 
my rose of the world! 1 love her, and love conquers all ob- 
stacles!” 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 65 

But Wycherly Lennox was mistaken; it was not love that 
he felt, but infatuation. 

The rosy glow of the early dawn was beginning to irradiate 
the east, when he went to his own room at last, the music still 
sounding in his ears, the fragrance of the ball bouquets scarce- 
ly fading from his senses, and Clara^s eyes haunting him with 
a vague, longing unrest. 

“ 1 have been a fool, a mad fool, not to leave Saratoga the 
very day I set eyes on her,^’ he muttered to himself, as he 
untied his lavender silk necktie, and pulled off his soiled white 
gloves. ‘‘ But it’s too late, now. I must call her mine, for 
no matter how brief awhile! We are all the sport of circum- 
stances in this world, and no man can resist his fate. Fortu- 
nately, I have been blessedly free from interference in all this 
business. There’s not a soul at Saratoga that knows me well 
enough to remonstrate with me for what the good-natured 
world would, probably, call making a fool of myself, and I 
can only hope that the news of this flirtation won’t reach the 
quiet atmosphere of home. In the meantime I’ll have a 
draught of happiness — one good brimming draught!” 

So he laid his head on his pillow, not so much to sleep as to 
pass from one bewildering dream to another, with Clara Ko- 
mayne’s beauty shining royally through them all. 

And Clara herself, how did she regard the evening through 
which she had passed? 

If Mr. Lennox could have seen her sitting before the mirror,' 
her gossamer ball-dress exchanged for a white dressing-gown, 
and her purple-black waves of hair hanging round her like a 
veil, while the bouquet she had carried was very carefully 
clipped in the stems and placed in a glass of water by the 
mother (for hot-house flowers cost money, and Mrs. Romayne 
knew the effect of a few flowers in the hair), he would have 
read an expression of sadness, almost of despair in her face. 

“ Well, Clara,” said her mother, exultingly, ^ 1 think you 
made a pretty good thing of it to-night.” 

Clara made no reply, but brushed silently away at her hair. 

“ Mr. Lennox is desperately in love with you,” went on 
Mrs. Romayne. I could see it in his eyes.” 

Still no answer. 

“ Didn’t I hear him making an appointment to drive you 
out to the lake to-mhrrow afternoon?” 

‘‘ Yes, mamma.” 

“ There’s a whole party going from the hotel here.” 

‘‘ Is there?” 

“ And that horrid little pink-e 3 "ed Jessie Arden expects 


66 


THE BELLE OF SAKATOGA. 


Lennox is going to ask her ! 1 heard them talking it over 
when we were in the supper-room. Won^t she be disappoint- 
ed, though?^^ 

“ 1 don^t know. 

‘‘ Clara, why don^t you show a little more interest?^^ 

“ I am so tired, mamma. 

When do you think Mr. Lennox will propose?^^ persisted 
the elder lady, standing at the toilet-table, with her hands toy- 
ing with Clara’s hair-pins. 

“ Oh, mamma,^^ wearily answered the daughter, “ how can 
I tell?” 

“ You are repelling him, Clara, with your coldness!” almost 
savagely cried the mother. 

‘‘ No, I am not!” answered Clara, between her set teeth. 

I have striven against this selling of myself until 1 see that 
it is of no use to strive longer. I must give in to Fate. I 
have promised not to oppose you further, mamma, and 1 shall 
keep my promise. If he proposes to me, I shall say yes — but 
1 will not lift my finger to hasten the proposal.” 

Mrs. Eomayne was silent. There was something in Clara^s 
hard, fixed look that overawed her bold, coarse nature. 

“ I think it very likely he’ll propose to-morrow, on the way 
to the lake,” she resumed, after bustling round a little, to put 
away the ball garments. 

Clara did not reply. 

“ There, go to bed, my dear,” Mrs. Eomayne said. “ You 
must sleep as soundly as you can, and try and get back your 
color, for you’re as pale as a sheet. ” 

“ That’s because 1 danced so much, mamma.” 

Here, let me twist up your hair, my child. There, that’s 
all right now.” 

Mrs. Eomayne watched Clara until the fair oval face was 
outlined against the pillow and the dark eyes were closed in 
the attempt to sleep, and then, darkening the shutters and ex- 
cluding the light of the dawning day as far as it was possible 
so to do, she lay down exulting within herself at the impend- 
ing success of her most ambitious plans. 

‘‘Wealth! wealth!” she murmured, within herself. “It’s 
what I’ve been striving after all my life, by fair means and 
foul, and it’s always escaped me just whefi my hand lay on its 
shining hoards! Now at last it will be mine! We shall both 
be rich!” 

But while she lay perfectly quiet, lest her slightest move- 
ment should disturb her daughter’s slumbers, Clara, too, was 


THE BELLE OF SAKATOGA. 


67 


pondering upon her future and her past, with closed eyes and 
motionless figure. 

‘‘ It is of no use/^ was the thought which passed through 
her wakeful brain. ‘‘ I don^t love him, and 1 never shall love 
him, and yet mamma is determined that I shall marry him. 
Oh, it were better that I had been born a Circassian slave-girl 
and sold in public market to the highest bidder than to be as 
I am now. For the Circassian knows no other fate — she is 
born and educated to be bartered for gold; while I — but, after 
all, he is kind and handsome, and 1 really believe he loves me. 
Mamma says that in time I shall learn to love him. It may 
be so. At all events, I am no worse than all these other high- 
born, handsome girls who are here for the sole purpose of 
husband-hunting, although they veil it under the pretty names 
of ‘health seeking ’ and ‘ fondness for change. Oh, how I 
scorn my sex sometimes, when 1 see such hollow pretensions 
and scarce-concealed maneuvering so make up what the world 
calls society! And they envy me because 1 am beautiful and 
have won the prize from them all. Oh, if they could but read 
the depths of my aching, miserable heart * 


CHAPTEE X. 

EKGAGED TO BE MARRIED. 

Clara Eomatme appeared at the breakfast-table, the 
morning subsequent to the “ hop,^^ as fresh and rosy as if she 
had not waltzed until three o^clock and lain awake aftervvard, 
much to the disgust of sundry other young ladies who sauntered 
down, with tallowy complexions and eyes looking as if they had 
been boiled — and when the afternoon drive to the lake was 
organized she came out on the piazza, her white dress trailing 
after her, with such roses on her cheeks as might have rivaled 
the freshly cut blossoms in her hand. 

“ Is that girl going demanded Aurora Graves, con- 
temptuously, as she leaned back among the cushions of the 
carriage. “ Well, she does contrive to push herself every- 
I where. I thought this expedition was to be kept select 
j “And just to see how painted she is!^^ spitefully rejoined 
Miss Arden, who, from the fond hope of being Mr. Wycherly 
Lennoxes selected companion, had descended so low as to ask 
her brother, “ if shecouldn^t ride with him and Miss Graves. 

Lieutenant Arden had consented, but with a very bad grace. 

“Girls are such a borel^Mie had said. “Why couldiFt 
you have got some fellow to ask you? Painted, indeed he 
echoed, 4 s he caught his sister^s words, “ You must be 


68 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


blind, Jessie, if you can’t tell the difference between that girl’s 
magnificent complexion mxii paint ! I don’t see why you all 
hate her so — she’s the prettiest thing out this season.” 

Aurora and Jessie shrugged their shoulders at each other 
as the lieutenant leaned over to close the carriage door — nor 
was their envious temper a whit improved by seeing, a mo- 
ment after, the open barouche dash by, with Miss Eomayne’s 
face turned toward them, all wreathed in smiles, and Mr. 
Lennox’s head bent close to it. 

“ 1 wonder if he really means to marry her?” Aurora ex- 
claimed. 

“ Marry her! Wycherly Lennox marry that girl whom no- 
body ever heard of before! The idea is simply preposterous!” 
said Miss Arden. 

“ Not so very preposterous, after all,” said the lieutenant. 
“ Every fellow in Saratoga is wild about her. They call 
her ‘ The Sultana,’ down at the other hotel, and Lennox will 
be in luck if he catches her, that’s all. She knows her own 
value!” 

“ Such bare-faced inveigling is perfectly shocking to me,” 
sighed Jessie. Husband-hunting is a complete science 
nowadays.” 

You ought to know all about it by this time, Jess!” ob- 
served her brother, mischievously. 

To which Miss Arden condescended to make no reply. 

The drive to Saratoga Lake, through umbrageous copses of 
wood, and between fields of waving grain, was delightful. 
Clara enjoyed it with the full ecstasy of a perfectly organized 
temperament; breathing in the fragrant breeze as if each in- 
halation were a separate happiness, and uttering exclamations 
of childish delight at every changing beauty of the landscape. 
Wycherly watched her with an amused sort of admiration. 
To him it was nothing more than an ordinary country scene 
— corn-fields, woods, and an old elm or two; to her it was like 
a glimpse into fairy-land. And when at length the lake burst 
upon them, blue and glittering, like a sheet of molten sap- 
phires, Clara could scarcely restrain her enthusiasm. 

‘‘ Oh, I don’t want to go up on the piazza where all those 
others are!” she exclaimed, as Lennox assisted her out of the 
carriage. Let us walk here, down by the shore!” 

Wherever it is most agreeable to you,” assented Mr. Len- 
nox, secretly rejoicing in her choice, for he had reached that 
stage of infatuation where any sort of companionship is a bur- 
den, and to be alone with the worshiped ideal forms a sort of 
earthly paradise. And they strolled along the brink of the 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


69 


shining lake, until they reached a shaded nook, where a fallen 
log formed a sort of rude seat, fringed with silver-gray moss 
and half hidden in the tall grass, while the creeping ripples of 
the lake almost touched their feet, as they broke with a mur- 
murous sound upon the shore. 

“ Let us sit down here,^^ appealed Clara, coaxingly, as she 
threw off her little round hat and began tossing tiny pebbles 
into the water, laughing with a child ^s innocent glee to watch 
the spreading rings they made. And what was she but a 
child, this girl of scarcely sixteen? An artificial life had forced 
her prematurely into womanhood — the hot-bed glare of society 
had blazed upon her life while it was yet in the bud, but her 
nature, her impulses, were 3 ’et those of a child. 

Wycherly Lennox leaned against a tree, watching her with 
eyes of passionate adoration, as she sat there with heightened 
color and rosebud lips half apart, while her shining hair was 
partially unloosed and her white barege scarf had fallen from 
her exquisite shoulders. 

Suddenly she glanced up —and the crimson rushed to her 
cheeks as she became conscious of his ardent gaze. 

Why do you look at me so earnestly she asked, half 
vexed. 

"‘Because 1 love you, Clara!^^ he ejaculated, passionately, 
“ because my whole heart lies captive at your feet. My Clara, 
my beauty, my royal queen of love, don^t turn those star-like 
eyes away from me! Give me one kind glance — one encour- 
aging word, or 1 shall die of a broken heart 

He sunk upon one knee, close to her, his eager, pleading 
eyes blazing upon her own with a fire that almost alarmed her. 

“ Tell me, Clara, he went on, “ that you will be mine — 
mine to love and cherish for my very own — mine to shield 
against all the cold looks of the world — mine to treasure as I 
would one of heaven^s angels! jSTay, dearest, 1 am brute 
enough to frighten you, else why that changing color, those 
startled eyes? 1 will not ask you to speak — only signify my 
blessedness by placing your hand in mirie.'’^ 

He held out his burning palm — cold and white as a sea- 
pearl; Clara Komayne's icy hand was laid within its fevered 
grasp. 

“ Then you tvill be my wife, darling?^ he ejaculated, with 
springing pulses, as the new tide of joy seemed to pour 
through his whole being. 

“Iwill.^^ 

He could hardly hear the words. So low were they spoken 
that the watchful ear of Love alone could detect their mean- 


70 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


ing. Bufc he did hear them, and folded her in his arms with 
all a lover^s rapt tenderness. 

“ My Clara/'' he murmured, “ my jewel, my dark-eyed, 
trembling fawn I why do you shrink from me so? 1 am your 
other self, your second life, my dear one! Henceforward we 
shall live for each other alone 

Clara Romayne sat motionless, the waters ot the lake seem- 
ing to shift with uncertain gleams around her, the blue sky 
overhead swimming before her eyes, while a deadly sickness 
crept into her heart and paralyzed every nerve with its numb 
grasp. 

She had won the prize so coveted — would her mother be 
contented notu ? Wycherly Lennox’s soft words pouring into 
her ears were to her as nothing but a meaningless murmur, 
possessing naught but idle sound. Clara knew that she did 
not love him— that she was selling herself for his wealth and 
station, and she sat, like a marble statue, responding neither 
to his fond words nor caresses. But Wycherly noted not this 
strange reserve; he was too much carried away by the blind 
rapture of the moment to be awake to aught but his own over- 
powering emotions. He only knew that she had promised to 
become his! The sound of footsteps crashing down the steep 
bank roused him from his dream of bliss. Clara started away, 
pale and trembling, as he rose haughtily to his feet. 

“ Who is there?” he called. 

“ It is 1, Lennox!” returned the voice of one of the party, 
a young Georgian. “ Where have you hidden yourself and 
Miss Romayne? We’re all ready to start, and the sun is 
almost down.” 

“ Go on, then, and wedl follow at our leisure,” impatiently 
answered Lennox. 

But Clara laid her hand remonstratingly on his arm. 

“We had better go now,” she said, gently. 

“ Darling,” he whispered, as he offered her his arm, “ your 
wishes are mine henceforward.” And then, speaking aloud, 
he added to Mr. Paisley, “ Tell them we are coming directly.” 

As Miss Romayne walked composedly to her carriage she 
was exposed to the searching fire of more than one pair of 
feminine eyes; but she cared not for their cold, malicious 
gaze. She had played her game carefully and well — she had 
won the stakes: henceforward she could afford to laugh at 
their envious looks. 

The drive home was like a rapturous dream to Wycherly 
Lennox, with Clara’s dewy eyes shining upon him, her little 


THE BELLE OE SARATOGA. 71 

velvet h^nd lying unresistingly in his. As for Clara, she sim- 
ply endured it. 

Long before breakfast the next morning all Saratoga knew 
that Wycherly Lennox was engaged to Miss Romayne. 

CJara and her mother were sitting together in one of the 
windows of the hotel parlor that afternoon, when Wycherly 
came in, with a rare bouquet of japonicas and heliotropes in 
his hand, which he tossed smilingly into Clara^s lap as he ap- 
proached. 

“You are so kind, my dear Wycherley, said his mamma- 
in-law elect, with a lavish display of her teeth. “ I tell our 
dear Clara that she can not too highly appreciate the treasure 
she has gained. 

“ And what do you think of the treasure I have come into 
possession of?^^ he asked, playfully, as he sat down beside 
Clara. 

“ Ah!^^ sighed Mrs. Romayne, putting her head sentiment- 
ally on one side, “ when 1 think of giving my sweet child up 
— but I won^t be selfish, Wycherly. I have always felt that 
this hour — so agonizing to a mother^s inmost nature — must 
come, and I have been schooling myself to meet it.^^ 

“ And when are you going to make the sacrifice?^^ he ques- 
tioned, speaking to the mother, but still looking into Clara^s 
face the while. “ When may I claim this fair flower for my- 
selfv^^ 

“ That^s just what I have been talking to Clara about,^^ 
eagerly answered Mrs. Romayne. “ I really shall be com- 
pelled to leave Saratoga ere long, and I would feel happier to 
see her your wife before I go, dear Wycherly, for — 

“ Mamma broke in Clara, blushing and indignant. 

“ My love, Wycherly knows just how we are situated, and 
although 1 wouldn^t for the world appear to press matters, 
still — 

“ Your mother is quite right, dearest Clara, soothingly 
interposed her lover. “ ^^o period can be too early for me to 
claim my cherished prize. Even next week — 

“ Next week precisely/^ edged in the delighted Mrs. Ro- 
mayne, her red face beaming like the full moon with gratifica- 
tion. “ The very time I mentioned, didiiT I, pet? ^ Wednes- 
day, of next week, Clara, ^ were the very identical words I 
said; and she, silly child, thought it was too soon. You donT 
agree with her, 1 am sure, my dear Wycherly. 

“ Clara,^^ he whispered, looking tenderly up beneath the 
drooping lashes that almost hid her eyes, “shall it be on 
Wednesday 


72 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


Whenever you please,'^ she answered, briefly. 

“ As for the trousseau — began Mrs. Eomayne. “ Clara, 
sweet one, where did I leave my fan? Would you mind fetch- 
ing it for me from the bureau in our room. Thanks, my own 
darling. And now that she has gone, dear Wycherly, 1 can 
speak to you confidentially about the difficulties I experience 
in providing for my child the things that other young ladies in 
her position here — the necessary articles of the trousseau. 

“ Oh, never mind the trousseau!’^ cried Mr. Lennox, a lit- 
tle impatiently. “ Pray dispense with it altogether. What- 
ever is necessary we can get afterward. 

‘"So considerate of you, I am sure,^^ said Mrs. Eomayne. 
“ But there are some things which are absolutely indispensable, 
and my sadly limited means — 

Wycherly rose and went to a table where were pen and ink, 
and drawing a check from his pocket-book, hastily filled it 
out, and handed it to Mrs. Eomayne. 

“ Five hundred dollars!^ ^ she cried, delightedly. “ My dear 
Wycherly, you are positively quite prince-like in your gener- 
osity. But we must never let Clara know, or — 

“By Qio means, assented Lennox; and Mrs. Eomayne 
thrust the check into the pocket of her dress as Clara slowly 
re-entered the room with the missing fan in her hand. “On 
Wednesday, then, of next week,^^ he added, as he gallantly 
rose to greet her. “ Oh, Clara, I wish it were to-morrow 

She smiled as coldly as the icy glimmer of the moon on the 
frozen gorges of the Alps, but made no other rejoinder. Mrs. 
Eomayne rose. 

“ You will excuse me, dear children,^^ she said, caressingly, 
“ but you know 1 have a thousand and one things to think of 
just now. 1 dare say you’ll be very good company for each 
other.” 

“ Clara,” whispered Mr. Lennox, as his future mother-in- 
law bustled out of the room, “you look pale, my dearest. 
What is the matter?” 

“ Pale? Do I? I suppose it is because I am tired.” 

“ Tired of what, darling?” 

She drew a long sigh, and a sudden animation flashed up 
into her eyes. 

“Of this life, Wycherly — of this hollow, deceitful garb I 
am compelled to wear. Oh, Wycherly, will it end when I am 
your wife?” 

“ Will what end, dear one? I am not sure that I under- 
stand you,” he answered. 

“ Ever since I can remember, Wycherly, mamma and I 


THE BELLE OF SAKATOGA. 


73 


have lived an artificial life — a life made up of false pretenses 
and unreal show. 1 have been dressed up like a doll at 
Christmas-time, and put on exhibition for my long hair and 
my pink cheeks to win me a wealthy purchaser. "We have run 
away from debts, cheated honest tradespeople, been subjected 
to mortifications that I dare not tell you of, until sometimes I 
have been weary of my very life. I have begged mamma to 
let me be a governess, or go out as a seamstress, or work by 
the day, sooner than to live on as we were living, but she 
would never listen to my entreaties. I was exposed to the 
small-pox, Wycherly, a few months ago, and mamma was in a 
perfect agony of apprehension lest her stock in trade should 
be damaged.'’^ Clara smiled bitterly as she spoke. “But 
believe me, Wycherly, 1 speak only the truth when 1 tgjl you 
that I would have been glad if this face had been seamed and 
marred with the ravages of disease, so that mamma could plan 
and maneuver about me no more. Yes, glad from the very 
bottom of my heart! But God would not let me escape from 
my fate thus, and perhaps it was just as well. And when 
mamma came to Saratoga 1 was almost in despair. Oh, you 
don^t know how humiliating it is, Wycherly,^ ^ she added, as 
if some sharp sting had quickened her recollection. “ I have 
cried from mortification many and many a time.^^ 

“ But it is all over now, love,^^ he said, soothingly. 

“Yes, it is all over now,’^ she said, smiling, though 
the moisture was yet on her eyelashes. “You are the good 
prince in the fairy tale, who has come to deliver the spell- 
bound damsel from the power of the enchanter. 

“ And your mother?’^ 

“Mamma does not love me, scornfully answered Clara. 
“ She is proud of me as a species of possession, and she likes 
to see me attract attention and admiration, but as for any 
deeper or more tender feeling — oh, Wycherly! I could have 
endured everything, and been happy still if she had only loved 
me. 

“ My darling,^^ whispered the enamored swain, “ I have 
love enough to supply all the accumulated want of years. You 
shall never again complain that you have lack of love!^^ 

Clara^s eyes softened — there was something pleasant in being 
so idolized, even if she felt herself totally unable to return the 
feeling. 

And so the wedding preparations went briskly on, while 
Clara innocently wondered “ where mamma got so much 
money, and Mrs. Eomayne, whose conscience was blunted 
long ago, drew remorselessly upon her future son-in-law for 


74 


THE BELLE OF SABATOGA. 


large sums and small, each draft being alike honored. For 
Wycherly Lennox was so blindly and unreasonably in love with 
the beautiful dark-eyed girl that he would have given melted 
diamonds, had they been in his possession, at the request of 
any one belonging to her I 

‘^Kemember, Clara is to know nothing of all these little 
business affairs of ours, Wycherly, Mrs. Komayne kept 
whispering m 3 'Steriously. There are so many things that 
must be got, and darling Clara is such a child 

And as the day approached Clara began to feel almost 
reconciled to the fate that had been forced upon her. After 
the wandering, unsatisfactory life she had always led, there 
was something strangely sweet in the prospect of rest at last. 
No more rovings from place to place — no more importunate 
creditors, or wearying duns — no more vain struggles to make 
a dollar buy more than a dollar's worth, because it was all 
they had. As Clara Eomayne looked back upon her past life, 
she shuddered and grew sick at heart. No wonder that she 
hailed the coming peace with a feeling, if not of rapture, at 
least of satisfaction. 

And Wycherly Lennox! He hardly knew how he felt. He 
had given himself to the blind enjoyment of the present, seek- 
ing and caring not for the future. 

“ I am mad!" he muttered to himself, and I know it, 
but it is a sweet insanity. Let it go on!" 


CHAPTEK XL 

THE DISGUISED FORTUIIE-TELLEII. 

It was a sunless morning in August, one of those quiet, 
slumbrous days when the heat is more oppressive than the full 
blaze of heaven's golden orb, when Clara Romayne sauntered 
into the parlor, where a group of merry young people had 
gathered, directly after breakfast, to form plans for the day, 
or talk over the exploits of yesterday. 

Wycherly Lennox separated himself from the rest, and ad- 
vanced to meet her as the hem of her pale-green chambrey 
dress swept over the threshold. 

“ Where are you going this morning, Clara?" he asked. 

“1 don't care!" she replied, languidly. “Anywhere or 
nowhere: it is all one to me." 

“ Then what do you say to our walking down to the grove 
of pines just out of the village? Hoyt says there is a gypsy 
camp there, and the most picturesque old fortune-teller you 
ever saw, who seems to know all about everybody's business. 


^HE BELLE OF SAKATOGA. 75 

as if he had a magic spell to read their secret hearts. Shall 
we make up a party and have our fortunes told?^^ 

“ Isn^t it too warm to walk so far?’^ asked Clara, arching 
her pretty eyebrows. 

“Jdy gracious, what an idea!^^ interposed her mother, who 
had followed her, and now stood a smiling and enthusiastic 
listener. For it was Mrs. Eomayne^s fancy that a youthful, 
childish manner was particularly becoming to her style, and 
she aped it on all occasions. Who knew what it might do for 
her, now that her daughter was so soon to be taken off her 
hands, to be a contrast and a foil no longer? “ Do let us all 
go; it will be so deliciously romantic 

“ As you please, Clara answered, really caring too little 
about the matter to argue it further. 

“ I shall not go,^^ said Miss Arden. “ Mamma disapproves 
of such charlatans, and besides, Mrs. Eathbone says that the 
people of the other hotel have lost ever so many things since 
the gypsy camp was pitched there. She says the police ought 
to dispose of them. Fortune-telling, indeed! I^’d tell their 
fortunes for them!^^ 

Now, do have a little pity. Miss Jessie,^^ cried one of the 
other gentlemen, holding up his hands in playful deprecation, 
“ and don’t destroy our cobweb of romance. Let us, just for 
once, have the pleasure of fancying the old wizard a genuine 
character, and the camp of gypsies descendants of Meg Mer- 
rilies and Wild Gabriel.” 

“ You can fancy what you please,” said Jessie, shrugging 
her shoulders, “ only let me recommend you to look well to 
your pocket-books and watches. 1 sha’n’t go, that’s enough.” 

But Miss Arden’s disaffection by no means extended itself 
to the rest of the circle, and it was but a very few minutes be- 
fore the solemn, rustling silence of the old pine grove was 
vocal with the cheerful signs and tokens of humanity. 

The gypsy camp, two or three weather-stained old tents, 
with a board shanty in their midst, was only redeemed from 
its dirty shabbiness by the grandeur of the column-like trees 
that rose up around and the picturesqueness of its situation; 
and in front of the tents were a few loungers, women weaving 
baskets, men smoking short black pipes, or whittling out 
arrows and coarse wooden wind-mills, and one or two black- 
eyed little children, who stared like frightened animals at the 
approach of the party from the hotel. 

“ Which of you is it that tells fortunes?” Lenox demanded, 
as he came up to the tents with MissEomayne and her mother 
beside him. 


76 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


“ It^s Black Abe the gentlefolks want. Rouse him up, 
some of you!^^ cried a wrinkled old hag, who had been first to 
catch the meaning of Lennoxes question, and in another min- 
ute the sheet which concealed the entrance to the further tent 
was lifted, and a tall figure, stalwart, and yet slightly stoop- 
ing, came forth; the figure of a man past middle life, whose 
coarse black hair and skin, both evidently stained with some 
dye foreign to their natural tint, contrasted singularly with 
light, glassy-blue eyes. His dress was worn black velveteen, 
and a scarlet sash knotted, scarf-fashion, at his waist, while he 
held in his hand a light bright wand, stripped of all its foliage 
except a tuft of leaves at the extreme end. 

Who seeks to lift the veil of the future?’^ he asked, in a 
tone that increased the dramatic efiect of his presence. “ Be- 
hold! I wait at the tem^ole door!’^ 

“ Well, I believe we all have some idea of that kind,^^ said 
Wycherly, rather amused at Black Abe’s theatrical rant. 
“ How much shall we pay for our peep into futurity?” 

“ Fortune treads only on pavements of gold!” was the brief 
answer. 

“ Gold, eh?” echoed Lieutenant Arden, in a whisper to 
Miss Graves. ‘‘ Upon my word. Black Abe sets a proper 
value upon his sibyline revelations!” 

Then,” answered Lennox, “ here is gold enough to pave 
the way for myself and these two ladies!” 

“ Good!” grunted the gypsy, whose singular light-blue eyes 
were restlessly roving from face to face as he spoke. And 
lifting the sheet that veiled his tent door, he added, “ Enter.” 

“ All of us at once?” demanded Lennox. 

“ No; one at a time! You first,” indicating Clara with a 
motion of the head. 

Clara drew back a little timidly. 

“ Perhaps,” interposed the smooth accents of Mrs. Ro- 
mayne, ‘‘ as dear Clara is so shy, and there really is some lit- 
tle strangeness about it, you had better go first, Wycherly, 
and — ” 

repeated the gypsy, still pointing his finger at 
Clara. ‘‘ The book remains sealed unless your hand un- 
clasps it.^^ 

“ Nonsense, mamma!” said Clara; ‘‘ what possible reason 
can there be for my shrinking back? Of course I’ll go.” 

She slightly inclined her head as she entered the tent, fol- 
lowed by Black Abe. 

The inclosed space had merely the green turf for a carpet, 
and one or two pine stools. A pile of folded blankets in the 


THE BELLE OF SAKATOGA. 


7? 

corner probably formed the gypsy^s couch at night, and a 
coarse wooden box or chest stood in the middle. A few tin 
plates and cooking utensils ranged upon a hanging shelf com- 
pleted the stock of internal decorations. 

‘‘ Let me look at your hand/^ said the gypsy, as Clara 
glanced with some curiosity around the tent. She extended 
it to him; he bent to study the scarcely perceptible lines in its 
satin palm, and there was a moment or two of silence. Then 
he spoke in low tones: “ High and low, low and high! There 
is a fortune waiting for you, pretty lady; but there^s death 
and sorrow, and the blackness of darkness to pass through 
first. There^s many a gypsy girl wouldiiT be in your place 
for all your eyes, and your hair, and the diamonds sparkling 
on your fingers. There, go!^^ 

“ But you haven’t told me whether my fortune is good or 
bad?’^ persisted Clara, half frightened, half amused. 

‘‘ l have told you all that is revealed.'’^ 

And as he lifted the curtains he beckoned to Wycherly 
Lennox. 

“ Your turn comes next,^^ was his brief summons. 

“ What did he tell you, dearest?’^ Wycherly asked Clara, 
as she emerged from the low door-way of the tent, with rose- 
burning cheeks and eyes more brilliant than '9wer. 

“ Oh, a jumble of everything, I think — high and low, and 
good and bad, and sunshine and shadow 

“ Is that all? I for one shall demand a more definite fort- 
une, I believe.^’ 

And Mr. Lennox disappeared into the tent where mys- 
terious oracles were supposed to dwell. 

“ How, what have you got for me, my friend?’^ he demand- 
ed, gayly. “ Let it be something very astonishing, or I shall 
never believe in palmistry again. 

But Black Abe^s brow contracted ominously, as he traced 
with one finger the lines on the young man^s white and aristo- 
cratic hand. He turned it to and fro, looked at it from one 
point and another, and then slowly shook his head and let the 
hand fall, a heavy weight, from his own. Then scanning the 
book of fate, he added: 

“ I canT make anything else out of it, no matter how 1 
read,^^ he said, in low and impressive voice. “ It’s one word, 
and one only that is written everywhere!’^ 

“ And that word is — ’’ ^ 

‘‘Death!” 

Wycheily Lennox stood for an instant as if a chill hand 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


'J'g 

had grasped his heart — the next moment, however, his scorn- 
ful laugh rang through the tent. 

“Death! You mean matrimony, 1 think. 

“ I mean death reiterated Black Abe, doggedly. “ The 
shadow hangs over you as you walk. I saw it when you came 
up yonder hill ten minutes ago. I see it now.'’^ 

Wycherly started, and glanced rather uneasily over his 
shoulder, as if he expected to see a living, tangible presence 
following and haunting him. 

“ Nonsense he exclaimed, cheerfully. “ Your science is 
a humbug, and you’re an impostor. Father Abraham, or what- 
ever your name may happen to be. Let me out of this hole, 
quick, before you are favored with any more unearthly in- 
spirations concerning me and my future.” 

And he sprung, laughing, out of the tent. 

“ It’s your turn next, Mrs. Komayne,” he said, gayly, to 
that lady, who was anxiously awaiting her interview' with Fate. 
“ Make haste before the oracle is played out!” 

“ Your fortune must have been inspiriting, dear Wycher- 
ly,” simpered the elder lady. 

“ Well, it was astonishing, I will say that for it; but as to 
inspiriting — but of course the fellow’s a humbug, and it’s a 
stupendous joke.” 

And beyond this assertion, Wycherly Lennox could not be 
persuaded to reveal the fortune that had been prophesied unto 
him. Great was the curiosity of the party who awaited their 
several summons, and numerous their questions, but Wycher- 
ly ’s answer was the same to every one. 

“ Time enough to tell it when it comes true,” 

In the meantime Mrs. Eomayne had entered the mysterious 
tent with the smiling simper of a young girl, and stood con- 
fronting the interpreter of the future, as she extended her 
plump though somewhat coarse hand to him. 

“ Well, what have you to say?” she asked. 

“ A treacherous servant, a false wife, a cruel mother, that 
is what I have to say to you, Sabrina Sinclair!” slowly answer- 
ing the man, looking her full in the face. She uttered a 
choking cry. 

“Who are you?” she demanded, growing red and pale. 

“ I am your husband.” 

“ You! The strolling vagrant — the gypsy fortune-teller!” 

“ Even so low have I fallen,” he returned, bitterly; “ while 
you are flaunting among the ladies of the land. It is well I 
have come across you now, Sabrina, for I never needed you 
more. You have outwitted me twice with a woman’s falsity 


THE BELLE OF 'SARATOGA. 


79 


and a devirs scheming, but you shall not do it a third time. 
Aha! I see you know me now, in spite of blackened hair and 
stained skin. There is the old look in the eyes, eh?^^ 

There was, indeed, the old cruel look that she had learned 
so to dread and fear in the years gone by, and Sabrina trem- 
bled and grew ashen pale as the withering light glimmered 
coldly on her face. 

‘‘ And that dark beauty is our little Eita, eh?’^ he went on. 

Jupiter! she^s a clipper, though, and youVe done well 
for her in the husband markeL It^s the common gossip here; 
I heard it long before 1 dreamed she was my daughter. But 
there^s my consent to ask first. I wouldnT ad rise the young 
man to be too sure of his bargain until he knows what the 
girFs father has to say.'’^ 

Mrs. Eomayne's heart grew chill within her. 

“ Oh, Abel,^^ she said, imploringly, as she laid her hand on 
her husband’s arm, “ you wouldn’t spoil her future, that is so 
bright and prosperous before her? Oh, Abel, have mercy 
upon her. ” 

‘‘Take your hand off, woman!” ejaculated the disguised 
fortune-teller, as he shoved off the clinging touch of his wife’s 
fingers. “ Mercy? Don’t I look like a pretty subject to 
preach about mercy to? Who has had mercy on me? Look 
at my rags and poverty!” 

“ But, Abel, you shall be rich,” breathlessly pleaded the 
woman. “ I’ll give you money — you shall share it all!” 

“ How much?” sullenly demanded the man. 

“ How much do you ask?” 

He laughed jeeringly. 

“ Aha! this is a jolly joke, when old gypsies like me are up 
in the money market! Now, listen to me, you pink of dutiful 
wives and conscientious mothers. You want me to get out of 
the way?” 

“ 1 want you to go away and leave Saratoga. I want you to 
keep away from me and my daughter. Trust me, I can make 
it worth your while.” 

“ Very well. Here are my terms — in consideration of 
which I will take myself and my whole gang off before the 
world is twent 3 ^-four hours older, and guarantee to trouble you 
and your precious daughter — 7ni7ie, too, Sabrina, and therein 
lies my power — no more. Heavens! to think how I have 
drudged for daily bread when such a mine of gold as this lay 
close to my hand!” he exclaimed, exultantly. 

“ But your terms — your terms! Quick! what will they 
think outside?” 


80 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


“ Let them think what; they please. But here, as I was 
saying, are my terms: a thousand dollars down, and a thou- 
sand dollars every three months hereafter. On this agreement 
ril leave you in peace — and on this alone. As long as the 
money is regularly paid, Idl live quietly, and trouble no one. 
But the day it ceases — 

He twisted the hazel sapling wand in his hands, broke it, 
and threw the pieces from him with a ferocious grinding of his 
white, even teeth that effectually finished the sentence. 

“ But, Abel, I can not possibly — 

“ You can not? Very well; that^s all I wanted to know. 
In that case, we needn’t prolong the interview.” 

“ Stop — you don’t understand me, Abel!” panted Mrs. Ro- 
mayne, catching at his arm as he turned away. “ I mean 
that I have not so much money.” 

‘‘ But you can raise it, I suppose, among your rich friends?” 

Mrs. Romayiie wrung her hands. Alas! he did not know 
how friendless she was. 

“ Yon don’t approve of my terms, then? All right; only 
it’s well to know just exactly what you have to expect Yes 
or no — that’s all I ask.” 

“Yes, yes, Abel; if you will only wait.” 

“ But I do not choose to wait.” 

“ I will bring you the money here to-night, if you will swear 
to me, with your hand lifted up to heaven, that you will keep 
the conditions affixed.” 

“ I swear!” 

“ Then I will bring it if I have to steal it!” hissed Mrs. Ro- 
mayne between her set teeth. “ Oh, if I could only have a 
little time; but every second is valuable. Mind, Abel, that 
the secret is kept. So one is to suspect that you are aught 
but the gypsy fortune-teller.” 

“ Do not fear,” he said, motioning her to withdraw, and 
she obeyed. 

Her usually florid face was pale as ashes as she joined the 
merry party again. 

“I declare,” cried Clara, “he has frightened mamma! 
See how white she is!” 

“ Nonsense!” sharply retorted Mrs. Romayne. “ 1 wish 
you wouldn’t talk so silly, Clara. The whole thing is a 
ridiculous farce from beginning to end.” 

“But you would come, mamma!” 

“ 1 am quite ready to go back again any moment you will 
start,” she answered, tartly. 

“ Then suppose we walk along,” said Lennox, who was 


THE BELLE OF SAKATOGA. 


81 


heartily tired of the gypsy camp and its surroundings, “ and 
the rest of the party can come when they have been suffi- 
ciently humbugged. 

Mrs. Komayne caught eagerly at this excuse for leaving, 
and slipped her hand through Wycherly^s arm. She really 
felt too weak and agitated to walk without support of some 
kind. 

“But, mamma,^^ resumed Clara, “you haven^t told ns 
your fortune yet. 

“My fortune? Oh! a pack of Mle nonsense, of course. 
What else could I expect?^^ answered Mrs. Komayne, in- 
differently. 

“ It took a long time in the telling, nevertheless, laughed 
Clara. 

And then, to Mrs. Romayne^s infinite relief, she strayed off 
into some other channel of desultory talk, and the fortune- 
teller was, for the time, forgotten. 

But Clara had no sooner gone upstairs to take off her things 
than Mrs. Komayne mysteriously beckoned to Mr. Lennox, 
who was lounging off toward the smoking-room. 

“ Would you mind giving me your arm to the spring, 
Wycherly?^^ she whispered; “ Kve got something very j)ar- 
ticular to say to you.^^ 

Mr. Lennox was beginning to dread Mrs. Romayne^s “ very 
particular interviews; but he offered her his arm, neverthe- 
less, with as good a grace as possible, and escorted her down 
to the spring, which Was quite a solitary place at that time of 
day, save for now and then an occasional stroller. 

“ Wycherly,'’^ said Mrs. Komayne,. sinking down on one of 
the Wooden benches. “ I want you to do me a very, very 
great favor. 

“ What is it?^^ he asked. 

“ And it is because you have been so kind up to this mo- 
ment that I dread to ask it of you. But it is to save dear 
Clara and me from such mortification and suffering. For 
myself 1 don^t care, but my darling child — 

And Mrs. Komayne, excited and trembling with nervous 
agitation, burst into the only genuine tears that Wycherly had 
ever seen her shed. They melted his susceptible heart at 
once. 

“ An old debt, 1 suppose. Don’t feel so bad about it, Mrs. 
Komayne. 1 dare say we shall be able to make it all right, 
he said, soothingly. 

“ But it is such a great sum!” 

“ How great?” 


82 


THE BELLE OE SARATOGA. 


A thousand dollars/^ 

Wycherly raised his eyebrows. In truth, it was a larger 
demand than he had anticipated, but what of that? Would 
he not have given much more, sooner than to see Clara an- 
noyed or miserable? 

“ You shall have it,^^ he said. “ I will write a check im- 
mediately. It won^t break me.^^ 

“ Oh, not a check, Wycherly! I must have it in bills!^^ 
urged Mrs. Eomayne, changing color in her eagerness. 

I will get it for you; then, in half an hour. 

He was as good as his word. Before the gong sounded for 
dinner Mrs. Jason Eomayne had within her possession the 
purchase-money for a few more weeks of peace. 

On the plea of “ taking a little stroll, just to help digest her 
dinner, she walked out that same afternoon to the pine 
grove. 

Black Abe, stretched at full length on the grass, in a shady 
nook on the very edge of the wood, nodded respectfully as she 
passed, and it was the most natural thing in th'e world that 
she should stop and speak to him a minute. Nobody won- 
dered at it, although several casual passers observed it. 

But they might have wondered if they had seen the roll of 
bills fall on the grass close to Black Abel’s head, and heard 
Mrs. Eomayne ’s words: 

“ Eemember, all future supplies depend upon the way in 
which you keep your word now. 

“ I shall remember, Black Abe answered, briefly. 

And when the next day^s sun irradiated the pine grove, 
gypsies, tents and all had vanished like a midsummer- night^s 
dream, greatly to the disappointment of sundry fashionables, 
who had set their hearts on having their fortunes told by that 
delicious old wizard in the velveteen suit and the scarlet sash. 

And Mrs. Eomayne breathed more freely again. 


CHAPTEE XII. 

A TELEGRAM IS RECEIVED. 

It was the day previous to that fixed upon for Clara 
Eomayne^s marriage — a quiet wedding in the hotel parlor, 
with no spectators, save those immediately interested, when 
the bridegroom-elect stood in the hall, buttoning a waterproof 
overcoat around him., with Clara leaning against the door-way, 
heedless of the soft summer rain that drove in beneath the 
piazza roof and sprinkled the skirt of her muslin dress, and 


THE BELLE OF SABATOGA. 


83 


Mrs. Eomayne in the background, officious and smiling as 
usual. 

“ It^s almost too chivalric on your part, I tell Clara, dear 
Wycherly,^^ she simpered, “ that you should go so far for 
nothing more than a whim that Clara should hold only white 
flowers in her wedding bouquet. But you always were a per- 
fect Chevalier Bayard, and you really insist on going to 
Schenectaday after those flowers? Clara, my love, you see 
what a devoted husband you will have.^^ 

“ I shall be back by dark, I dare say,^^ Mr. Lennox said, 
indiflerently, in answer to Mrs. Eomayne^s simpering volu- 
bility, but as he turned to Clara his face softened into an ex- 
pression of wild, wistful longing which she had never before 
seen there. 

“ Good-bye, Clara, my little love, the only woman I have 
ever really loved — good-bye 

One instant he folded her close to his breast, pressing a 
long, lover-like kiss upon her lips, and in the same instant 
Clara felt something wet and warm, like a tear-drop, upon 
her cheek. 

Wycherly,^^ she exclaimed, as he turned away to spring 
into the waiting carriage, “ come back! 1 want you to tell me 
why — 

But he waved his hand lightly to her, with a smile upon his 
Apollo-like face, and was gone, the roll of the departing car- 
riage-wheels mingling mournfully with the patter of the rain 
on the piazza roof. 

That tear — what did it mean? Did he repent the past, or 
dread the future? Or was it some sudden pang which had its 
birth and origin in the present? Clara mused over it long 
and earnestly, but she could not account satisfactorily for it 
to herself. 

Tea-time came, but no Wycherly. Clara did not trouble 
herself particularly about his enforced absence. She thought 
it very likely that he would not return until later in the even- 
ing, and there were a thousand little things to occupy her 
time and thoughts; but when the clock struck ten, and there 
were still no tidings of the absent bridegroom, she did think it 
a little strange. 

‘‘ Mamma, she said, pausing abruptly in her busy occupa- 
tion of packing some favorite books into a trunk, “ what can 
have become of Wycherly?^^ 

Fm sure I don’t now,” Mrs. Eomayne answered, with a 
troubled countenance. He certainly would have had time 
to return in the evening train.” 


84 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


I should think so.^^ 

“ Bother those flowers Mrs. Eomayne said, sharply. 
‘‘You would better have had no bouquet at all than to make 
all this fuss over a mere whim.^^ 

“Mamina/^ pleaded her daughter, piteously, “I didnH 
ask for the flowers — 1 didn^'t even think of them!^^ 

“ It^s enough to drive one distracted, this worry at the last 
moment,^^ went on Mrs. Eomayne. 

“ But, mamma, I would u’t worry. That is — 

“ Oh, no, of course you wouldnT,^^ sneered the mother. 
“ That’s just your way. If there’s any troubles, or trails, 
or annoyances, 1 have to bear them. Some daughters have 
heart enough to sympathize with their mothers.” 

“ Mamma, is there anything I can do to help or assist you?” 
Clara asked, gently. 

“No, there’s not!” snappishly answered Mrs. Eomayne. 
“ Oh, dear, what a trial children are! I’m heartily glad 
you’re to be married to-morrow, and off my hands. ” 

Clara’s secret heart echoed her mother’s words. She, too, 
was glad to be no longer a burden on hands which had never 
ministered gently to her wants, and for the instant she was 
almost disposed to regret the arrangement which had been 
made for her mother to live with them on their return from 
the wedding tour and their permanent settlement in New 
York. But the next thought was one of self-reproach at what 
she fancied her own heartlessness, and she answered, caress- 
ingly: 

“ Don’t let yourself be annoyed, mamma, dear — it will be 
all right, I dare say.” 

“ All right — and you to be married at nine o’clock to-mor- 
row morning! Well, I’m glad you view it in that light — 
that’s all I’ve got to say.” 

Clara, sadly conscious that whatever she might say would 
be torn critically to pieces by the fierce fangs of her mother’s 
temper, took refuge in silence once more. 

“Just as like as not the ceremony will have to be put off, 
and everybody knows that’s bad luck.” 

“ Oh, mamma, a mere superstition!” 

“ There’s a great deal of truth in superstition, Clara, as 
you’ll find out before you’ve lived to be as old as your moth- 
er. Have you almost finished this trunk?” 

“ Quite, I believe,” said Clara, rising to her feet, with a 
sigh of weariness. 

“ Then do go to bed. I can finish the rest; and I don’t 
want you to look like a white marble statue to-morrow!” 


THE BELLE OE SARATOGA. 


85 


Clara glanced spiritlessly round the room. Her wedding- 
dress of white silk (for Mrs. Komayne had insisted on Clara^s 
being married in full dress, even though it was to be immedi- 
ately changed for the sober traveling-dress of lavender poplin), 
lay on the sofa, its rich folds catching the gaslight like woven 
silver; the floating veil and the chaplet of orange-blossoms 
were close by, and in its open case on the table lay the set of 
pearls which Wycherly himself had clasped round her neck, 
and hung in her ears, only that morning as his bridal gift. 

Everything was there to make a bride^s heart light within 
her, and Clara felt at that instant that hers was as heavy as 
lead. 

She strove to analyze and account for this unwonted sad- 
ness. What did it mean? Was it a premonition — a shadow 
from the future falling darkly across what should be the most 
rapturous hour of her young life? 

‘‘ What are you standing there for?"'^ her mother^s coarse 
voice broke in upon the current of her reverie. “ Why don^t 
you go to bed, as I tell you? You are shivering now!^^ 

And Clara obeyed, glad enough to hide her wet eyes in her 
friendly pillow. 

Mrs. Komayne listened cautiously until Clara had fallen 
into a brief, disturbed slumber, and then, exchanging her 
shoes for a pair of shuffling list slippers, crept out of the room 
and to the landing. 

‘‘ Josephine, she said to a chamber-maid who was coming 
up, “ i§ the hall-boy in the hall?^^ 

“Yes, ^m.^’ 

“ Ask him to step up here a minute, won^t you?^^ 

“ Yes, ^m.^^ 

Josephine tripped down-stairs again, and presently the hall- 
boy lumbered up. 

“ Whatfll you be pleased to want, ma’am?^^ he inquired, 
discontentedly, for Mrs. Komayne was not popular among the 
servants owing to the fact that she always exacted a great deal 
from them and was not willing to reward their services by any 
extra fees. 

“ Has Mr. Lennox returned yet, Johnson?^^ said the lady, 
smoothly. 

“ No, nWam, he hasn^t.^^ 

“ Are you sure?^^ 

“ Not unless he^s come through the keyhole, or under the 
door,’^ the boy replied, with a grin. “ ^Cause I^d ha^ seen 
him else. 

“ Shall you be on duty to-night ?^^ 


86 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


“Yes, ma^am/* 

“ Well, Johnson, if he does come— and he will, I am quite 
certain — Johnson grinned again at this, for all the servants 
in the house knew of the wedding, which was to “ come off 
on the morrow — “ 1 want you to come to my room and let 
me know. I sleep very lightly, and you need only knock very 
softly. 

“ Yes, ma^am.^^ 

“ And, Johnson, if you’re prompt and watchful ” — she had 
drawn out a rustling one-dollar bill, but its very rustle was 
music in her avaricious ears, and she could not find it in her 
heart to do aught but slip it back again, to Johnson’s infinite 
disappointment— “ I’ll see that you are well paid.” 

“ Yes, ma’am.” 

And Johnson withdrew accordingly, muttering within him- 
self: 

“ The stingy old clapper-claw! But Miss Clara ain’t a bit 
like her, bless her pretty heart, and I’m blowed if I know how 
they ever came to be mother and darter!” 

Mrs. Eomayne returned to her own room, satisfied with the 
result of her expedition, and busied herself putting away things 
for some time, so that it was not until the clock had'^chimed 
twelve that she lay down to rest, perhaps, but not to sleep; 
rather to listen for sounds below — for the roll of carriage- 
wheels, or for Johnson’s steps in the hall coming to proclaim 
to her the tardy arrival of Mr. Lennox. Once or twice she 
started up, fully convinced that her vigil was about to be re- 
warded, but no, it was only some late arrivals being piloted to 
their rooms, or the stealthy regular tread of the night-watch- 
man on his rounds. Each time the disappointment grew harder 
to bear, and sleep visited Mrs. Eomayne’s pillow in mere 
broken glimpses during the whole of the long, wearisome 
nighc. 

The storm wore itself away toward daylight, and Clara 
Eomayne’s wedding-day dawned with a soft, midsummer brill- 
iance, which could not but be deemed auspicious. As the 
level beams of gold fell across her pillow, and touched her 
eyelids with their slender aureate wands, Clara started from 
her light slumbers, and saw her mother gliding softly around 
the room. 

“Mamma,” she exclaimed, “are you up already? Has 
Wycherly returned?” 

“ No,” briefly replied the mother. 

“ Not returned yet!” echoed the girl. “ Oh, mamma, what 
can have happened?” 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


87 


“ Don^fc be a goose^ child — nothing has happened, I dare 
say, except that he missed the train, or got belated, or didn'^t 
care to come on in the rain. We shall hear of his being at 
the breakfast-table, I have no doubt. 

‘‘ But, mamma, are you quite sure he hasn^t come in the 
night 

“ Yes, quite. I have been down to the office this morning, 
and asked Johnson, the hall-boy. His room is locked, just as 
he left it. Come, get up, child — it’s high time you were be- 
ginning to dress. ” 

‘‘But I’m to have my breakfast sent up to my own room, 
mamma, am I not?” 

“ Of course you are, who ever heard of a bride parading 
herself at the breakfast-table an hour before she was mar- 
ried?” 

“ Why, mamma, I don’t see anything so very awful in it, 
but, of course. I’ll do just as you wish,” said Clara, laughing, 
as she threw on her white dressing-gown, and began to loosen 
out the shining, magnificent waves of her luxuriant hair, pre- 
vious to brushing it ready for the hair-dresser’s hands, while 
Mrs. Komayne went nervously to and fro, listening for every 
foot-fall, yet evidently anxious to disguise her uneasiness from 
her daughter. 

“ I don’t understand it,” she muttered to herself. “ I — 
don’t — understand — it! There must be some misunderstand- 
ing here, and it is very provoking to have it occur just now. 
Yes, come in, Madame Dupre,” she said, smiling, to the hair- 
dresser, “ my daughter is quite ready for you. Did you bring 
the French flowers to hang down under the orange wreath? 
Clara’s hair is so black that they will be very becoming to 
her.” 

“ Mamma,” interposed Clara, “I’ve a great mind not to 
begin dressing until Wycherly returns.” 

“ Nonsense, child!” cried her mother, tartly. “ Of course 
he’ll be punctual — you must go on just the same as though he 
were dressing in his own room.” 

And she beckoned the hair-dresser to commence her task. 

It still lacked a few minutes of nine when Clara was entirely 
dressed in her bridal array, white silk veil, orange flowers, 
even to the white silk boots and snowy gloves, edged with a 
ruche of mist-like lace, while Wycherly Lennox’s pearls drooped 
from her small ears and glistened upon her throat. 

“ Clara, you do look beautiful!” cried the mother, with 
very pardonable pride, as she stepped back a pace or two to 
survey her lovely daughter, who stood there, brilliant and 


88 


THE BELLE OF SAKATOGA. 


graceful as a young queen, her soft eyes shining like dusk 
stars, and a faint, imperial crimson glowing on either cheek 
through the vapory folds of the long tulle veil. 

There was a sympathetic murmur of admiration through the 
little audience that had gathered round the half-open door to 
see the bride, en grimde toilet, and Josephine, the chamber- 
maid, whispered to Mme. Dupre that there was oh! such a 
lot of people down in the parlor to see the wedding, though 
goodness gracious knows how it had ever leaked out; she 
hadnT said a word that she knew.'’^ 

“ Now, mamma, cried Clara, lightly, though with a very 
perceptible tremor in her voice, ‘‘ we are all ready but the 
bridegroom. Suppose he shouldn’t come?” 

“ Don’t talk such absurd folly, Clara, responded Mrs. 
Komayne. “ One would think you were six, instead of six- 
teen. I dare say he’s in his room now.” 

“ But he isn’t, though,” whispered Josephine, sagely nod- 
ding her head, ‘‘ for — ” 

But at this instant a servant from the office pushed into the 
group. 

“ A telegraphic dispatch., ma’am, for Miss Komayne,” he 
said, staring at the lovely white vision that glittered in the 
middle of the room. 

Clara took it in her hand and looked at the superscription 
with a sort of vague apprehension. 

“ Mamma, open it,” she said, holding it out to Mrs. , 
Komayne, who snatched it and tore open the seal, greedily 
anxious for some news of the defaulting bridegroom. 

“ Dabling Clara,” she read aloud, unconscious that she 
was pronouncing the words audibly, “ I shall never see you 
again. I can not become your husband, because I am already 
a married man. Forgive me if you can, for I never shall for- 
give myself. 

“Wycherly Lenkox.” 

This was all. 

Clara stood pale and passionless, as if her exquisite features 
and perfect proportions had been carved in alabaster, rather 
than human flesh and blood, but Mrs. Komayne burst into a 
passion of furious invectives, her face purple with rage/ and 
her eyes fairly blazing with vindictive Are. 

“ A married man!” she shrieked. The villain! the false, . 
deceiving, smooth-tongued scoundrel! But I’ll have the law 
of him yet — I’ll teach him to play off his black-hearted tricks 
on two poor defenseless women! I’ll — ” 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


89 


“ Mamma/^ Clara interposed, laying her ice-cold hand on 
her niother^s arm, ‘‘ remember that we are not alone. 

‘‘ Alone!’^ echoed Mrs. Eomayne, shrilly. ‘‘And what 
matters it whether we are alone or not? Was he alone when 
he singled yon out from all the belles of Saratoga? Did he 
court you alone? Has the matter been conducted under a 
bushel? There is no secrecy to it — all the world has seen our 
shame, ’and all the world shall see our revenge! For 1 will be 
revenged on him— I sioear I will!^^ 

Her voice had risen almost to a scream. 

“ Mother, 1 command you to be silent!^’ Clara spoke with 
a dignity almost marvelous in one so young and placed in 
such painful circumstances. She motioned to the scared and 
trembling Josephine to close the door, and then turned the 
key herself. No curious eyes should read the secret of her 
heart in that moment of dismay and terror — no prying glance 
gloat on her disappointment and her rnother^s impotent anger. 

And, while the strange story of the missing bridegroom was 
flying all over the house, gaining in marvelous detail and 
growing improbably dramatic as it traveled — while all the 
fashionable circles of Saratoga were stunned at this most un- 
expected denouement to the wedding which had everywhere 
been talked of — while gossip and scandal “fed themselves 
fat upon such a meal as had not been vouchsafed to them 
before during the whole season, the beautiful heroine of the 
oft-repeated story sat in her room, the wedding-white still 
floating round her in glistening billows of silk and tull^, the 
wedding blossoms scarcely paler than the satin surface of her 
own oval cheek, and a look almost of desperation in her large 
black eyes — a deserted bride! 


CHAPTER XIII. 

PHILIP LEHHOX^S PROMISE. 

The gas had just been lighted in one of those large and 
magnificently furnished mansions which, like a succession of 
palaces, line upon both sides the superb northward sweep of 
Fifth Avenue, and through the windows, thrown open to ad- 
mit the cool air of evening, so infinitely refreshing after the 
burning heat of the August day, the curtains of embroidered 
lace floated like soft clouds of whiteness. 

Within, a suite of high-ceiled rooms were paneled in dove- 
color and gold, and hung with exquisite oil paintings and 
water-color views, while mirrors, reaching to the carpet, dupli- 


90 


THE BELLE OE SAKATOGA. 


Gated everything. They were spacious and beautiful rooms, 
furnished with evident regard to taste as well as show, and 
beyond the ground-glass doors in the further apartment the 
tropical foliage and blossom-starred thickets of a conservatory 
were plainly visible, whose perfume now and then floated 
through the drawing-rooms like a memory of the rose gardens 
of Bendemeer. 

A lady, considerably nearer forty than she was thirty, was 
sitting ill a low, velvet-covered chair, close to the drop-light, 
with a book in her lap, but she was not reading. She had 
been pretty once, with fair hair, and blue, innocent eyes, but 
the hair had grown thin around its parting, and the eyes had 
faded, and unwelcome “ crow^s-feet round 03*0 and lip be- 
tokened the progress of Timers relentless footfalls. Her dress 
was of blue grenadine, tastefully made and richly trimmed; 
and she wore ornaments of costly turquois, set in heavy Etrus- 
can gold, while a shawl of white point lace hung loosely from 
her thin shoulders. 

As she sat there biting her lip and tapping one foot con- 
tinuously on the ground, as if in unison with the thoughts 
that fllled her mind, the door opened, and a tall, flne-looking 
man, a few years younger than herself, entered. 

He was not so regularly handsome as Wycherly Lennox, yet 
there was something in the peculiar liquid light of the dark- 
blue eye, and the formation of the noble forehead that plainly 
bespoke him to be the elder brother of Wycherly Lennox. A 
close observer might have preferred Philip Lennoxes Arm, 
square mouth and resolute eye to Wycherly^s more effeminate 
beauty, yet the world^s verdict was generally in favor of the 
latter. Nor did Philip care to dispute it. 

‘‘ Are you here all alone, Antonia?'’^ he asked, as he ad- 
vanced into the room. 

“ Yes, all alone, and almost out of patience, Philip,^^ the 
lady answered, querulously. It^s so stupid here!^^ 

“ 1 ought not to have left you so long, my dear.'^^ 

“ Oh, it isnT that, Philip. I^m sure you are a great deal 
kinder than could be expected, but what can be the reason 
that Wycherly stays away so?^^ 

Philip Lennox thought of his brother — young, handsome, 
and devoted to society, and then looked at the frowning fore- 
head and fading charms of the lady before him. It was scarce- 
ly strange, he said, within himself, that Wycherly did not 
hurry back. 

For this sharp-featured, complaining woman was AYycherly 
Lennoxes wife, married in a moment of angry, unreflecting 


THE BELLE OF SAKATOGA. 91 

j pique, and now regarded by her handsome young husband with 
I more than indifference. 

I “We shall hear from him in a day or so, I dare say,"^ Philip 
I said, soothingly. 

“If we do not, 1 shall certainly join him at Saratoga, 

' petulantly interrupted Mrs. Lennox. 

“ Against his wishes?’’ 

“ 1 don’t care for his wishes! Am 1 not his wife, and 
haven’t I the right to be with him? Does he suppose it is 
particularly pleasant to me to be mewed up here in this hot 
' city, when everybody else has left town? I know he does not 
love me, and never did, but he might at least be ordinarily 
I humane.” 

' She began to cry weakly as she spoke. 

I “Be patient, Antonia,” said Philip, kindly. “ Wycherly 
I is trying, but he will soon be here now. 1 wrote to him my- 
j self last week, telling him how anxious you were to go to Lake 
George before the season was any further advanced, and threat- 
ening that I would take you myself if he did not return pretty 
promptly.” 

Antonia wiped her eyes with a lace-edged handkerchief. 

“ Did you, Philip? That was kind of you, but — dear me! 

I how that ring at the bell startled me! Why will people pull 
I the wires as if they thought other people’s nerves were made 
of India-rubber? What is it now, James?” 
j “If you please, sir,” said a servant to Mr. Lennox, “ would 
j you sign your name in this book? It’s a telegram. ” 

I Philip Lennox hastily affixed his signature iiijhe right place, 

' and then, as the servant withdrew, broke open the envelope. 

It was dated at Eoxway, a station half-way up the line of 
I the Hudson River Railroad, and contained these startling 
j words : 

I 

I “ Philip Leknox, No. — Fifth Avenue. 

“ Come at once. There has been a collision on the road, 
and your brother is, we fear, fatally hurt. 

“John Walteksham.” 

Of all the strong feeling of Philip Lennox’s nature, a pas- 
sionate affection for his younger brother was perhaps the most 
dominant — an affection which sought to hide his faults, shield 
him from the slightest annoyance, and surround him with sun- 
shine; and this frightfully sudden tidings struck on his heart 
with paralyzing power. The telegram dropped from his 
hands; he staggered back a pace or two, clasping both hands 

■ 


92 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


over his forehead, as if he had received some deadly blow. 
Antonia started to her feet. 

“ Philip!'^ she cried, wildly; ‘‘ Philip, what is it?^^ 

And as he made her no answer— for the anguished horror 
had palsied his tongue for the moment — she sprung forward, 
and catching up the slip of paper read it for herself, burst- 
ing out into hysterical screams and cries as she did so. 

“ Antonia, pleaded Philip, recovering his own self-posses- 
sion as he saw how completely hers was upset, “ be calm; do 
not shriek so. Listen! I must go to him at once. 1 can 
catch the train if I hurry away.^^ 

And I? Can I go, too?^^ 

“ Not now, Antonia. There is no time, nor do 1 think it 
wise. Believe me, 1 will send for you at once if you can be 
of any use. There, there, let me go, poor girl; every instant 
is precious to me now. 

And with a hurried pressure of the hand, he rang the bell 
for Mrs. Lennox’s maid to attend her instantly, and rushed 
out of the house, striding up the street at such a pace that 
people involuntarily stopped to stare at him and fancied him 
mad. 

Fortunately he was just in time to swing himself on to the 
rear platform of the last car as it ran out of the depot-house, 
thereby saving an hour and a half’s time, and edging through 
the crowd within he leaned against the corner of a seat, and 
tried to collect his tumultuous feelings. 

Wycherly fatally hurt — dying, perhaps dead — the brother 
who had always been to him like a portion of his own life and 
identity — the cherished playmate of his childhood, the dear 
companion of his later years. 

He could hardly believe it; it seemed like a frightful dream, 
and he caught himself vaguely wondering when he should 
wake. And through the jolting and jarring of the cars he 
heard disconnected sentences and scraps of conversation going 
on around him. 

Wall Street brokers, talking of business; gayly dressed 
ladies, comparing with one another the results of their day’s 
shopping; gray-headed men, wrangling about the latest bone 
of dissension in politics; and just beyond him two men were 
talking about the great railroad accident. 

“ It’s a train 1 often come down on,” said one:; a fast 
train — deuced lucky thing that I was detained this morning.” 

I beg your pardon,” said Philip, touching the speaker’s 
shoulder, “ but you were speaking of the railroad accident at 
Roxway?” 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


93 


‘‘ Five miles beyond Eoxway — carelessness of the flagman/^ 
answered the man, starting a little, as he caught sight of 
PhiFs ashy pale-face in the sickly glimmer of the lamps. 

‘‘ Were there many hurt?^^ 

“ Yes, a good many; only two or three killed. Might have ^ 
been a great many more. They telegraphed at once to Eox- 
way for more cars and medical attendance. One would think 
theyM learn, after a few more lessons of this kind, to employ 
responsible men.^^ 

“ Do you — do you know the names of any of those hurt?^^ 
gasped Philip, dreading, yet longing for the answer. 

“ No, sir,^'’ coolly replied the man. “ All 1 learned was in 
the ticket office, where 1 happen to have a friend, and he was 
telling me the general particulars.^^ 

How endless the journey seemed to Philip Lennox, as the 
long train rushed through tunnels and thundered over stone 
culverts, shrieking through the sultry, starless darkness of the 
summer evening, like a hoarse-throated demon, as it were. 

Yet they made what the conductor phrased “good time,^^ 
and it was not yet midnight when Philip Lennox, dusty and 
travel- worn, was ushered into the little low-roofed room at the 
village inn, just beyond Eoxway, where his brother Wycherly 
lay dying. 

“ Has he come?^^ gasped Wycherly, as the the door creaked 
on its hinges. “Oh, Phil, it is you! Pm glad to see you 
once more, old boy.^"" 

As the brothers wrung each other^s hands, Philip glanced 
appealingly at the white-haired doctor standing on the other 
side of the bed. He shook his head almost imperceptibly. 

“ Oh, Wycherly! is it as bad as this?^^ Philip cried, looking 
down on the bandaged head and ghastly, white face on the 
pillow. 

“ It^s so bad that it canT last very long !^^ Wycherly an- 
swered. “ Doctor, you’ve been very kind, but I know what 
you think. Can I hold out till morning?’^ 

“ Possibly — but not much longer.’^ 

“ Very well, then you may as well leave me and go to the 
other poor fellows who perhaps need you more. My brother 
is here, and I shall not want you again.’’ 

So Dr. Waltersham withdrew on tiptoe, after a whisper or 
two to Philip Lennox concerning stimulating draughts and 
iced bandages, and the brothers were alone together. 

“ Phil, you’re a trump to come so promptly!” gasped the 
younger, as his brother bent over his pillow. “ How did 
Antonia take it? Badly enough? Well, she’s better off with- 


94 


THE BELLE OF SAKATOGA. 


oufc me, poor girl. We didn’t suit each other, some way, 
and — and — but oh, Phil, here’s what 1 wanted to tell you, but 
somehow my mind seems to drift away from me. Give me a 
few drops of water, and come close to me, Phil; I couldn’t 
have died with that on my mind.” 

And as briefly as possible he told the whole story of the 
events that had been transpiring within the past few weeks at 
Saratoga; how he had allowed himself to tread further and 
further the forbidden path, reckless of all obligations, moral 
and social, and how at the last moment he had saved himself 
and Clara from utter ruin only by a cowardly desertion of 
the girl he had promised to marry! 

“ I know I’ve been a weak, mad fool, and, what’s worse, a 
villain!” he said, with a groan. “ The poor little homeless 
girl! Phil, I wish you could see how lovely and young she is, 
tied down to that ogress of a mother. Phil, Phil, it hangs 
round my neck like a millstone! 1 can’t die and leave little 
Clara so. You’ll see her righted — you will provide for her? 
I never until this hour realized what a cowardly thing I have 
done! Say you’ll look after her, Phil!” 

“ Set your mind at rest, Wycherly,” his brother answered. 
“ I will go to see the girl, or send my lawyer — she can easily 
be bought off!” 

But you don’t know the stuff she’s made of,” despairingly 
interrupted Wycherly Lennox. ‘‘ She’s too proud for that; 
she would scorn your money, and the mother — ” 

He stopped abruptly; a sharp twinge of pain had cut short 
his half-uttered sentence. 

“ Oh, my poor little Clara!” he resumed, in low, wailing 
accents, “ 1 would give all my hopes for this world and the 
next if I could only marry you now, and know that you were 
raised out of that wretched life for good and all. But I can 
not, 1 can not!” 

His remorseful agony smote like a knife to his brother’s 
heart. 

“Wycherly,” said Philip Lennox, “listen to me, dear 
brother. Would it be any relief to your mind if 1 were to take 
your place to the girl you speak of, and marry her?” 

“ Would you, Phil?” cried Wycherly, grasping the other’s 
hand with a sudden light in his face. “ Oh, Phil, I can’t tell 
you what a weight it takes off my mind!” 

“ For your sake, Wycherly, I will!” 

“ Promise me, Phil — promise me, with your hand in mine, 
and your lips close to my ear— you will marry Clara Romayne 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


95 


in my stead — you will love her and cherish her as I would 
have done?^'’ 

“ I will marry Clara Romayne/"' Philip Lennox slowly and 
distinctly articulated after his brother. ‘‘ I will love her and 
cherish her as you would have done. Are you satisfied now?^’ 

“ Quite — quite satisfied, and quite happy, Wycherly an- 
swered, dreamily. ‘‘ And Heaven be merciful to you, when 
you come to lie where I am lying now, as you keep this prom- 
ise you have made. I shall die easily now, Philip. Let me 
see — there were some things 1 wanted to say to you, but I 
must sleep a little first. Don^t leave me, Phil — let me hold 
your hand while I sleep. 

‘‘ I shall never leave you again, Wycherly. Shall I tell 
them to telegraph to 'Antonia?’^ 

“ No; better not. I shahi^t last long, but I don’t care, now 
that you have promised me. You did promise, Phil!” he 
cried, appealingly. 

“ 1 did promise, Wycherly.” 

“ Now, let me sleep,” wearily rejoined Wycherly Lennox 
and Philip, sitting motionless by his brother’s bedside, in a 
cramped position, whose pain he scarcely felt in the greater 
anguish of his mind, watched the panting respirations which 
seemed to rattle in his throat as he drew them, and shuddered 
in the awful presence of Death. 

At day-break Dr. Waltersham came in again, and critically 
surveyed the gray face lying so motionless upon the blood- 
stained pillow. 

“■ Will he wake soon, doctor?” whispered the elder brother. 

He will never wake again, my poor boy!” answered the 
medical man, pityingly. 

“ But there were some things he wanted to say to me!” ex- 
claimed Lennox, shocked and startled. Had we not better 
rouse him?” 

“ Nothing but the last trumpet will ever wake him now,” 
said Dr. Waltersham. “ He is quite insensible — the stupor 
preceding dissolution. You may as well come away, Mr. Len- 
nox; he is unconscious of your presence.” 

‘‘ Never, while there is a spark of life remaining!” Lennox 
answered. 

The old doctor shrugged his shoulders, and went away. 
Lennox still sat beside the bed, faithful to the last; and when 
the red sunrise flashed sullenly through the small-paned win- 
dows which looked to the east he saw that his brother was 
dead. 

Wycherly Lennox, in the fresh prime of his days, had gone 


96 


THE BELLE OF SABATOGA. 


to render up his last account, and Philip was left alone with 
the solemn promise on his soul. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

Clara’s second suitor. 

Scarcely more than a week had elapsed from the day on 
which Clara Rornayne had donned her bridal blossoms in vain, 
and her mother was sitting in her room at the hotel, elabo- 
rately dressed, as if expecting to receive company, while her 
brow wore a look of troubled care. 

‘‘ Almost three o^clock,^^ said Mrs. Rornayne, fretfully, 
glancing at the shadows on the greensward surrounding the 
spring below. I wonder what it all means? I am glad I 
didn^t tell Clara about it; and it"s the most fortunate thing 
in the world that Mr. Fensdale has asked her to drive with 
him this afternoon. Clara might do well hei'e j^et, if I could 
only persuade her to stay. Mr. Fensdale is certainly taken 
with her, and he^s a very good match, if he is three times 
Clara’s age. Oh, dear, dear, is there any end to a mother’s 
anxieties — and so ungrateful as children are, too!” 

And Mrs. Rornayne, with a deep sigh, stooped to pick up 
the letter which had fallen from her lap, and read over its 
contents for the fortieth time at least. 

“Mrs. Jason Romayne, Room — , 
Clarendon Hotel, Saratoga. 

“ Please remain where you are until the relatives of the 
deceased Mr. Wycherly Lennox can communicate with you. 

‘‘Philip Lennox.” 

“I — don’t — understand — it,” repeated Mrs. Romayne. 
“ If he was a married man, why do his relatives want to com- 
municate with us? Perhaps he made a will and left Clara 
some money — he was very much in love with Clara — but that 
isn’t likely, either, dying so suddenly as he did.” 

As these cogitations passed through her restless brain a tap 
sounded at the door. 

“ Come in,” Mrs. Romayne called out, and the servant 
brought in a card, edged with deep black, bearing in old En- 
glish characters the name of “ Philip Lennox.” 

Ask him to walk up here,” said Mrs. Romayne, hurriedly 
adjusting her lace coiffure, and smoothing down the folds of 
her stiff silk dress — one of the new garments purchased by 
poor Wycherly Lennox’s generously given money. 

The next minute she was bowing to a tall, noble-looking 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 97 

gentleman, dressed in the deepest of black, who had been 
ushered up to her room according to her orders. 

The instant she looked into his face her crafty nature 
taught her the best part to enact, and sinking back in a chair, 
she covered her eyes with her pocket-handkerchief. 

“ Excuse this emotion, she faltered, “ but you are so — so 
like Wycherly! And although he has treated us cruelly, yet 

—yet—'' 

“Pardon me, madame,’"’ said the stranger, gravely, “but 
1 can not permit any one to speak thus. Whatever my broth- 
er’s faults may have been, death has drawn a veil over them 
all now, and Pam here to make, as far as lies in my power, 
atonement for what you may have suffered. 

“No one can do that,” sighed Mrs. Romayne, squeezing 
out, by some muscular contraction or other, a few tears, which 
rolled ostentatiously down the bridge of her nose, and splashed 
into her silken lap. “ My poor deserted Clara! Her pros- 
pects ruined, her — ” 

“ 1 am here to marry her, in my brother’s stead, if you will 
accept me as a suitor,” quietly interposed the gentleman. 

Mrs. Romayne stared in utter astonishment. In all her 
wildest dreams of the future, such an idea had never entered 
her mind. It seemed incredible— too brilliant a piece of good 
fortune to be within the limits of a possibility. 

“ To marry Clara?” she gasped. 

“ To marry Miss Romayne,” calmly assented Mr. Philip 
Lennox. “ It was the wish and the injunction of my dying 
brother, and I consider myself sacredly bound to fulfill it.” 

“ Clara will never consent, if she knows why you are here,” 
said Mrs. Romayne. 

“ Then she must not know it. Let me meet her merely as 
a relative of the man to whom she was once engaged, and 
strive to win her heart by my own unassisted endeavors. For 
I rnud marry her!” 

The interview which followed was long and earnest. 

Philip Lennox’s determination to take the place which his 
brother should have held toward Clara Romayne was so evi- 
dent that Mrs. Romyane secretly rejoiced, and willingly lent 
herself to further the arrangement by every means in her 
power. 

“ You have my best wishes for your success, dear Philip — I 
may call you so, may I not?” she asked, with the old, shark- 
like simper. 

He winced a little, but answered, coldly: 

“ Certainly, madame.” 


98 


THE BELLE OP SABATOGA* 


And/^ went on Mrs. Koma 5 aie, “ although Clara is such 
a willful creature that it is hardly possible to control her, still, 
if you make such an agreeable impression upon her as you 
have done upon me — ” 

“ A truce to idle compliments, Mrs. Romayne,^^ interrupted 
Mr. Lennox, coldly. “ Believe me, I shall lose no opportun- 
ity of pressing my suit, l)ut, in the meantime, 1 must beg, 
both for my own sake and that of the lady, that no attempts 
at coercion may be hazarded.^’ 

“ You are right, Philip,^^ said the lady; “ and, perhaps — 

She stopped short, for at that instant the door opened, and 
Clara herself entered. 

“ My darling love, when did you return?’^ cried Mrs. 
Romayne, starting to her feet with a little scream. “ Mr. 
Lennox, let me present to you my daughter Clara. Clara, 
this is our poor Wycherly’s only brother. 

Mr. Philip Lennox bowed low. He could scarcely conceal 
the surprise he felt at that rencontre. He had expected to 
see a pretty, simpering little flirt, fit daughter of such a shal- 
low, vulgar mother, or, at best, a raw girl, whose only attrac- 
tion was her youth. Uliat, then, was his genuine astonish- 
ment on beholding this queenly creature, whose royal grace 
lent a charm to every movement, and whose pure, perfect 
features realized his highest standard of female loveliness. 

Mrs. Romayne ’s keen eye noted his sensations, and she re- 
joiced within herself at the impression her beautiful daughter 
had made. 

The first introduction was necessarily brief, and not with- 
out a certain embarrassment. 

Clara listened silently to the excuses and apologies Mr. 
Lennox had to make for his brother's conduct; but Mrs. 
Romayne herself interposed, as Lennox waited in vain for the 
girPs answer. 

“ 1 am sure, Mr. Lennox, Clara need not be too severe upon 
the errors of which she herself was the cause. For dear 
Wycherly certainly did love her.'’^ 

‘‘ Mamma,’^ said Clara, quietly, “ if he really had loved 
me, as you say, and as I believed, he would have left Saratoga 
when first we met, instead of placing me in a position which — 

She shuddered, and paused. 

“ It would undoubtedly have been his duty. Miss Romayne, 
Philip Lennox said; ‘‘ but which of us dare cast the first 
stone at his memory.^ Do we always choose the bitter duty in 
preference to indulging a sweeter error? And I, for one, oan 


THE BELLE OF SAKATOGA. 


99 


bear evidence that Wycherly Lennox did love you deeply and 
tenderly — nor can 1 be surprised at it/^ 

The last words, spoken impulsively, and as if they had 
slipped from his lips unawares, brought a deep color to Clara 
Eomayne^s cheek, but she said nothing more until Mr. Lennox 
took his leave. 

“ I shall remain in Saratoga for some time,^"" he said, as he 
rose. “ May I have the pleasure of again calling upon ladies 
in whom 1 must necessarily always feel the deepest interest?’^ 

He looked in vain for a reply from Clara, but Mrs. Komayne 
answered, smoothly: 

“We shall always he most happy to see you/’ And this 
terminated the interview. 

“ Well, my love,^^ began Mrs. Eomayne, the instant that 
Mr. Lennox’s footsteps had died away upon the stairs, “ what 
do you think of our poor Wycherly’s brother?’^ 

“ Nothing very particular, mamma, except that he seems 
very much more like a man than Wycherly!’^ 

And Clara began spiritlessly to put away the lace parasol, 
the dainty little hat, and the lavender-colored kid gloves she 
had worn during her drive. Mrs. Eornayne watched her with 
an intent sidelong gaze. Close upon the first shock of her de- 
sertion and mortification had followed this listless, indifferent 
mood, and the mother justly dreaded the effect of its long 
continuance. 

“ Don’t you think he’s very handsome?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ And so kind to come here and seek us out immediately.” 

“ Why should he not, mamma? Was it oi/r fault that his 
brother chose to trifie with us, for lack of any other play- 
thing?” 

“ Don’t speak so, Clara dear; remember poor Wycherly is 
dead!” 

Clara smiled bitterly as she recalled the obnoxious epithets 
that her mother had up to this time taken every opportunity 
of heaping upon the runaway bridegroom, while she herself 
had been almost uninterruptedly silent upon the subject. But 
she made no comment on this sudden change of sentiment. 

“ lie is going to remain some time at Saratoga — that will 
make it pleasant for us, dear, won’t it?” 

“ I thought you were going to leave Saratoga next week.” 

“ I did think of it, my dear, but since Mr. Fensdale — ” 

“ Mamma,” Clara threw down the black lace shawl she was 
folding, and suddenly faced round upon her mother, “ 1 will 
not hear any more of this wretched, soul-degrading plotting; 


100 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


neither will I be a party to it! 1 tell you, once for all, that it 
is useless for you to weave your nets around George Fensdale. 
1 will nevtr marry him, not if he were ten thousand times the 
man he is/^ 

“ Clara, what a fool you are!^^ indignantly interrupted Mrs. 
Romayne. “ Who wants you to marry George Fensdale? All 
I meant to say was that, since his attentions prevent it from 
being so dull to you, as we thought it was going to be, we 
might just as well stay on here a little longer as iiot/^ 

“ Where everybody knows my failure and disgrace?’^ 

“ Where everybody will know your triumphs and successes, 
if you only play your part like a sensible girl. Clara, with 
your face, you ought to overcome the world !^' 

‘‘ I have no ambition left, mamma, drearily answered the 
girl. 

“ At all events, if the waters agree with me, and I enjoy 
Saratoga, you’ve no objections to staying?’^ testily rejoined 
Mrs. Romayne. 

“ Not if it amuses you, mamma,' ^ answered Clara, sinking 
once again into the old apathetic manner. 

Mrs. Romayne had gained one point in the cautious game 
she was playing, and wisely abstained from any further efforts 
at present. 

The fashionable season at Saratoga was at its brilliant zenith, 
and Philip Lennox, young, rich, and handsome, and, more- 
over, with a certain romantic interest attached to him, from 
his having been sufficiently brave to come forward and defend 
the memory of his dead brother in the very scene of that 
brother's most fatal error, soon became the reigning hero of 
the gay circles. 

He withdrew markedly from society, but society followed 
him. He was sought, courted, and lionized everywhere, and, 
when it began to be apparent to all eyes that Clara Romayne 
was monopolizing him just as she had monopolized his broth- 
er, a general outcry of rage and indignation went forth on all 
sides. 

“ Well,^^ ejaculated Miss Aurora Graves, who had as yet 
been unsuccessful in bringing Lieutenant Arden, or any other 
young man, to the “ proposing point,” ‘‘ I should think that 
girl had received a sufficient lesson for once!” 

“ One brother donT satisfy her,” giggled Mrs. Pearl Rath- 
bone; “ she must have both.’’ 

“ And to see how completely he is infatuated, poor fellow!” 
said Laura Brinsmade. “ Why, be follows her about like her 
shadow!” 


THE BELLE OF SAEATOGA. 


101 


I “ Oh, that’s easy enough to be accounted for,” said Miss 
Graves; “ what can a man do when a girl throws herself at his 
head? For my part, I don’t think those Eomaynes are de- 
i cent, and I always said so! I don’t see why we tolerate them 
in our set!” 

Miss Graves might have seen ” plainly enough ^ — for wher- 

ever the Diana-like beauty of Saratoga went, thither flowed 
the tide of masculine humanity, and Saratoga, without an 
ample supply of beaus, was like the play of “ Hamlet ” with 
! the “ Hamlet ” left out! They must tolerate Clara Eomayne, 

I or they would have been left altogether destitute of the male 

element in their society. But that fact they chose sensibly to 
ignore! 

Mr. Lennox had been almost two weeks at Saratoga, and 
Clara, in spite of the stern prejudice she had conceived against 
him at first, was beginning to like him far, far better than she 
had ever liked Wycherly. There was a depth in his nature, a 
chivalric tenderness that somehow appealed to the most sus- 
ceptible emotions of her own. 

She felt, although she was scarcely willing to confess it even 
to herself, his vast superiority over Wycherly’s sparkling, 
froth-like temperament. 

She had liked Wycherly — she admired Philip. 

She came in one night late from a moonhght stroll with Mr. 
Lennox, and found her mother nodding over the columns of a 
newspaper. 

For, although the leaders of the ton in Saratoga dared not 
openly defy Clara, her mother was more at their mercy, and 
Mrs. Eomayne had been actually driven out of the parlors by 
the marked coldness, if not actual aversion, which was mani- 
fested toward her on all sides in her daughter’s absence. 

“ Heigho!” said Mrs. Eomayne, with a prodigious yawn, 
“ I hope you’ve had a pleasant walk, Clara.” 

Very pleasant, mamma.” 

“ I’ve found my evening a very stupid one. I’ve a mind to 
leave Saratoga.” 

Leave Saratoga, mamma?” 

Clara’s cheek grew pale; a half-apprehensive expression 
came over her face. 

, Mrs. Eomayne, watching the unmistakable symptoms, 

I smiled within herself. 

She had no more idea of leaving Saratoga than she had of 
going to the top of Mont Blanc, but the remark had merely 
been thrown out as a sort of “ feeler/’ to sound her daugh- 
■ ter’s iuclinations. 


102 


THE BELLE OF SAKATOGA. 


“ So you are enjoying it, child?’^ she said, carelessly. 

“ Well, well, all places are alike to an old woman like me; 
we won^t go just yet, pet/’ 

But her mother’s words had disturbed the serene, sparkling 
current of Clara’s happiness. 

She had, unexpectedly as it were, caught a glimpse into 
her own heart, and what she saw there almost frightened her. 

“ Am I in love?” she thought, as she stood before the glass, 
taking out the half-blown roses she had worn in her braids. 

‘‘ Ob, surely, surely not! People know when they fall in love 
— it is a sudden, startling sensation, something which can not 
be mistaken, and which must be very different from this 
gradually growing friendship between Mr. Lennox and me; 
yet, what a sharp, sudden pain I felt when mamma spoke of 
leaving Saratoga, and when I questioned myself about it, it 
was all because I did not like to be separated from Mm ! Oh, 
it is only because I am a silly, sentimental girl, oiot because I 
am in love!” 

But, notwithstanding all these weighty arguments with her- 
self, Clara Eomayne by no means felt satisfied with the in^'- 
fallibility of her decision. 

So she studiously avoided Philip’s society for several days, . 
greatly to the surprise of that gentleman and the gratification 
of the young ladies at the hotels, who commenced their own 
campaigns vigorously, and not without diplomatic skill. 

It was rather a relief to Philip Lennox for the time being, 
for he was utterly wearied of wearing the semblance of devo- 
tion without any real heart to it. For, while he appreciated 
Clara’s rare beauty, and saw the rich promise of her as yet 
undeveloped nature, he felt that he was acting by a sort of 
compulsion, and, man-like, experienced a sort of cold antagon- 
ism, in proportion as Clara’s shy liking, hardly love as yet,, 
became apparent to him. In vain he reproached himself f(>r 
the sensation, and strove to school himself into a better stat^, 
of mind; the inner consciousness was still there that Clara^ 
Kornayne was not what the wife of his choice should have b^qn, 
to him. 

“ Pshaw!” he pondered to himself. ‘‘ I must marry herj^ 
for the promise so solemnly vowed at poor VVycherly’s deathr. 
bed must not be lightly broken, and the longer I procrastinatej 
matters, the more unpleasant it is Ifikely to be for both of us., 

I dare say I shall like her very well,, and! she will make a good[ 
little wife, once removed from the influence of that coarse-, 
visaged virago of a mother. At all mntSt^ I ^hall dQ iny duty* 


I’HE BKLLE OP SARATOGA. 103 

to and try to be as good a husband as if I were madly in 
Jove. Poor Wycherly!^^ 

And a long sigh followed this reverie. 

Matters were in this state one soft September noon, when 
Philip Lennox lay on a bench among the trees in the hotel 
grounds, with a book in his hand, totally neglectful of the gay 
chatter of half a dozen girls who were fluttering round the 
spring just beyond, trying with all their witching little arts to 
attract a modicum of his attention. 

At length Clara Romayne came out of the hotel, with a 
light grenadine scarf thrown over her white dress and a lace 
parasol in her hand, and sauntered toward the spring also. 

Her appearance was the signal for a general sensation among 
the girls and their attendant gentlemen. 

“ Of course,^^ said Miss Arden, “ where Mr. Lennox is. 
Miss Romayne canH be long absent.'’^ 

“ Ridiculous!’^ said Aurora Graves, spitefully. 

“ What a pity it isn’t leap year!” 

“Don’t, girls,” said George Rathbone. “She’ll hear 
you.” 

“ Well, I don’t care if she does, the bold-faced thing!” 

• ejaculated Aurora. “I never saw anything like it, the way 
:she runs after poor Mr. Lennox.” 

Philip Lennox sat upon the bench and closed his book de- 
liberately. Clara, who really was quite unaware of his pres- 
>ence in the vicinity, came forward in her usual slow, graceful 
imanner to the spring, and the little boy in attendance, with 
\whom the pretty Miss Romayne was a favorite, ran to dip her 
up a fresh glass of the sparkling water. 

As she replaced the tumbler in the tin rack Miss Romayne 
made some pleasant remark on the heat of the weather to Mrs. 

, Rathbone. 

“ Hot!” ejaculated that lady, with a malicious toss of her 
head. “Humph! The weather may be hot, but there are 
ther things quite cool enough.” 

“ I do not understand you,” calmly replied Clara, turning 
her hirge dark eyes on the pert speaker. 

“ j.'^erhaps you can understand me a little better now,” said 
that la ^ titter, as she glanced toward Philip Lennox, 

who was" advancing to the spring, and she drew back a 

pace or t Clara colored deeply. Mr. Lennox, who from 

his isolate^ ^ position had caught just enough of the colloquy to 
comprehend ^ Gyiog to be insolent to Clara, was 

not himself . membarrassed. 

“ By the wa turning to Mr. Rathbone and young 


104 


THE BELLE OF SABATOGA. 


Arden, after he had bowed to Miss Romayne, “ didn’t 1 hear 
you speaking about a drive to the lake after tea?” 

“ Well, we were })laiining some such escapade, I believe. 
Shall we have the j^leasure of your company?” returned Rath- 
bone. 

‘‘ I should like it very much,” said Lennox. “ Will 3^ou 
go with me. Miss Romayne?” 

Clara’s quiet acceptance of his offer was followed by a gen- 
eral buzz among the disappointed candidates for Mr. Lennox’s 
favor. 

“ Well, 1 declare!” cried Effie Ducie, a plump little Flor- 
idian, who had begun decidedly to “ fancy ” the handsome 
man in mourning. 

‘‘Oh, it’s nothing to wonder at,” giggled Jessie Arden; 
“ that’s what Miss Romayne came out here for.” 

” Does the girl think we are all blind?” demanded Mrs. 
Rathbone, audibly. 

Clara looked up, flushed and annoyed; but Lennox was 
talking to her too earnestly to heed the malignant whispers 
circulating around him. 

“ Saratoga Lake, of course,” laughed Miss Graves; “ the 
place where the younger brother fell into her net is a good 
locality to set snares for the elder one. Quite appropriate — 
he! he! he!” 

Absorbed as he was in his beautiful companion, Philip Len- 
nox could scarcely fail to hear and comprehend this barbed 
arrow of spite and envy. He drew himself up to his full 
height, as he turned round and directed a stern haughty gaze 
full at Aurora’s face. 

She shrunk back, turning scarlet beneath her layer of rouge 
at the cutting coldness of his look; and as he led Clara 
Romayne away from the now silenced group he felt that he 
had made enemies of them all for life. 

Neither of the two spoke until they had reached the hotel 
hall. There Clara withdrew her arm from his. 

“ Where are you going?” he asked, gently detaining her. ' 

“ To mamma.” 

“ Not until I have said a word or two to you; Clara, you 
are crying!” 

Her heart gave a joyous thrill within her. Up to this mo- 
ment he had only called her “Miss Romayne.” Now the 
sweet name seemed to escape from his lips, as if it were his 
second nature to pronounce it. 

“ Nor do I wonder at it,” he went on, impulsively. “ Clara, 
I can not any longer allow the insolence of these people to gall 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


105 


you. Will you be my wife, Clara? Will you give me the 
right to defend you for the future from all such annoyances 

She lifted her soft, shy eyes up to his, swimming in tender 
light. The roses came to her cheek. 

“ Philip, do you really mean it?’^ 

‘‘ I do really mean it, Clara. If you will promise to become 
mine, I will love you and cherish you as— as Wycherly would 
have done.^^ 

For in that moment the face of his dead brother seemed 
close to him, smiling as he had smiled when first that promise 
had been spoken. 

Clara^s cheeks glowed with even deeper carmine, and her 
soft, warm little hand twined itself closer round his. 

“ Oh, Philip, I am so glad — so happy 

And, as the sbund of footsteps echoed on the piazza with- 
out, she fluttered away from him and disappeared. 

Lennox stood with folded arms, looking after her. There 
was no lover-like ardor in his breast, no passionate thrill of 
triumph to think that he had won so beautiful a creature — 
only a sort of weary, stoical resignation to what must be; and 
he thought to himself: 

“ 1 have kept my promise to the very letter, and Wycherly 
may rest peacefully in his early grave. AlasL how little he 
thought what a heritage of endurance he was laying up for 
me! Poor, poor Wycherly 

But he never thought of saying poor Olara!’^ 

And yet, perhaps, she, in all her fresh life and bloom, was 
more to be pitied than the dead mail in his shroud. 


CHAPTER XV. 

WEDDING PREPARATIONS. 

The news of Miss Romayne^s second engagement flew like 
wildfire throughout the length and breadth of the fashionable 
watering-place. In fact, there was no particular pains to con- 
ceal it. Philip Lennox openly escorted Clara and her mother 
to all the meals, and wherever a gentleman companion was 
practicable. Clara took no precaution to hide the flash of the 
cluster ring which seemed to splinter the sunlight into vivid 
coruscations on her slender finger, and Mrs. Romayne told the 
whole story with many “ nods and becks, and wreathed 
smiles,^^ to whoever would take the trouble to listen to her 
ecstasies. 

“ So very romantic, she cried, putting the points of her 
fingers close together, and rolling up her eyes toward the 


106 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


corner of the ceiling, “ to think that both brothers should fall 
so desperately in love with my little girl! 1 really feel as if 
dear Wycherly had somehow bequeathed his love to Philip — 
such a sweet idea!’^ 

“ He had a great deal better have bequeathed a little of it 
to his own wife, if all that I hear is true,^^ tartly rejoined 
Mrs. General Grow. 

“ Yes,^^ carelessly returned Mrs. Romayne, “ that was very 
unfortunate that he had a wife living; but you know, dear 
Mrs. Grow, that our hearts aren’t altogether within our own 
countrol, ahvays. ” 

Mrs. General Grow, a fat, overdressed woman, with a very 
red nose, whose husband had eloped within the year, accom- 
panied by the sewing-girl, grew mahogany-colored at Mrs. Ro- 
mayne’s skillful retort, but marshaled her forces after a min- 
ute or two’s sulky silence, and said: 

I hope this one hasn’t got a wife living! I’d advise you 
to make inquiries!” 

“ Oh, no!” answered Mrs. Romayne, complacently. “ Mr. 
Philip Lennox never married. I believe the family are very 
wealthy.” 

“ I believe they are,” unwillingly admitted Mrs. General 
Grow. “ 1 wonder what Mrs. Wycherly Lennox will say to 
the very fascinating sister-in-law who eats up men’s hearts as 
if they were penny sugar-cakes?” 

“ Oh, 1 dare say they’ll be great friends,’^ sweetly respond- 
ed Mrs. Romayne, who was determined not to be offended. 

My Clara has such an affectionate disposition, and she gets 
along with everybody.” 

“ Humph!” snorted Mrs. General Grow, and unable to en- 
dure Mrs. Romayne’s self-gratulation, she rose and waddled 
away to tell some other gossip-inclined dowager of what “ that 
vulgar old woman ” had said to her, while Mrs. Romayne 
mentally hugged herself at the ill-concealed envy of her an- 
tagonist’s soul. 

Greatly to Mrs. Romayne’s gratification, Philip Lennox was 
as anxious as herself to hasten the period of his marriage, for 
he felt that his death-bed promise to his brother could never 
be wholly fulfilled until Clara Romayne was his wedded wife, 
and the preparations for a second bridal celebration were 
promptly resumed, for the wedding was to take place about 
the middle of September. 

At first Clara had begged her* mother not to subject her to 
the gossip and the publicity of a second Saratoga wedding; 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. l07 

“but Ml*s. Eomayiie bad no idea of furling the splendors of her 
flag to suit a mere whim on her daughter's part. 

“ Nonsense, Clara, she said; “ because youVe once been 
thrown over here is the very reason you should show them 
that you can be married in spite of fate. Philip wishes it, and 
ISO do 1; and you may just as well make your mind up to it at 
‘once!^^ 

And Clara said no more. She was too happy to w^aste much 
Tthought on anything but her lover and his wishes, and, after 
lall, as her mother said, it mattered but little where the cere- 
mony was performed which should make her his forever. 

Those were blissful days for Clara— days of quiet, tete-a-tete 
wanderings, country drives, and long, quiet evenings spent by 
the side of the man she loved best in all the world. 

Koyally handsome as she had been before, love was still a 
wondrous beautifier, and in that term of her engagement peo- 
ple looked after her, as she passed, marveling at the softened 
splendor of her midnight-dark eyes, and the sweet expression 
of her perfectly chiseled lips. 

The ladies congratulated themselves upon the approaching 
removal of this powerful rival in the field, and gentlemen 
pulled their mustaches discontentedly and muttered to them- 
selves something about Philip Lennox’s being “ a deuced lucky 
fellow!” 

While Mrs. Komayne, with the instincts of accumulation 
which seemed born within her, industriously set herself to 
work to improve the occasion as best she might, for her own 
benefit and behoof, and urged a modest appeal to Mr. Lennox 
for “ just the most trifling loan in the world for a dress or two 
to make poor, sweet Clara a little more like other brides.” 

“ Certainly — by all means,” Lennox answered, coloring with 
annoyance to think that his own forethought had not prevent- 
ed this embarrassing application. I should have volunteered 
it myself had I not imagined that you had probably provided 
a trousseau before, when — ” 

“My dear Philip,” playfully interrupted Mrs. Romayne, 
shaking her head, “ that shows how little you know our dar- 
ling Clara, a lily of the field, that takes no thought. Give 
her a white muslin dress and a rose for her hair, and she never 
thinks of aught else! 1 often tell her she is too neglectful of 
practical affairs, but you know what a child she is — only six- 
teen. She’ll be as wise as her mother in time.” 

Philip Lennox devoutly hoped that his wife never would be- 
come as wise as her mamma in some things, but he kept these 
aspirations to himself, and drew a most generous check to 


108 


THE BELLE OE SARATOGA. 


provide for the wants of the ‘‘ lily of the field/^ greatly t6 
Mrs. Romayne^s delight. Out of two wedding outfits it would 
go hard but what the bride^s mother could glean a very hand- 
some wardrobe for herself, while Clara, wrapped in her first 
all-absorbing dream of love, never for a moment suspected 
the barefaced impositions being practiced on her betrothed 
husband by her mother. 

So the wedding preparations went merrily on. Boxes of 
millinery arrived from Albany and New York; ponderous 
packages of dry goods, sent by express, were daily carried into 
Mrs. Romayne’s rooms, and a brigade of dress-makers and 
sewing-women revolved round Clara’s orbit at all times and 
seasons. Only once did the unconscious object of all this 
preparation remonstrate, and that was when Miss Sharpe, the 
senior modiste, came in a carriage to fit a white satin dress 
with a trail a yard long. 

“ What’s this for, mamma?” asked Clara, her head full of 

Marmion,” which Philip Lennox was reading aloud to her 
in the private parlor which had been engaged for their joint 
occupancy. 

“ For the wedding-dress, child, to be sure. Do stand still; 
Miss Sharpe is getting the side seam too far under the arm 
with your twisting.” 

“ The wedding-dress, mamma!” echoed Clara; why, I’ve 
got one wedding-dress already as pretty as it can be. Why 
don’t I wear that?” 

Miss Sharpe rolled up her eyes; Miss Higgins, her assistant, 
dropped the scissors with a little exclamation, while Mrs. Ro- 
mayne cried: 

“ Hush, hush, child! Don’t you know it wouldn’t be lucky 
to wear that dress again?” 

“ Nonsense, mamma; I’d as soon wear it as not,” persisted 
Clara. 

“ Who ever heard of such a thing?” cried Mrs. Romayne. 
“ I certainly shall not allow you to behave so foolishly.” 

“ Well, then, mamma, what is to become of that lovely 
dress?” questioned Clara. 

Mrs. Romayne grew a shade redder than her natural hue. 

“ I’m haying it fitted over for myself.” 

Clara burst into a merry peal of laughter. 

“ Mamma, you in a white silk dress with tulle puffings!” 

“ Well, why not?” demanded Mrs. Romayne, in an offend- 
ed tone. “ I hope I’m not so old that I can’t be allowed to 
wear white silk once in awhile, on a full-dress occasion. It’s 


TfiE Ot' SAHATOGA. 


109 


Very hard to have one^s own daughter sneering at one’s years, 
and—” 

But Clara, regardless of Miss Sharpe’s scissors, which were 
wreathing themselves about somewhere in the region of her 
ribs, took her mother in her arms and kissed her into silence. 

“ Mamma darling, don’t be annoyed. You shall wear 
forty white silk dresses at once if you like, only it did seem 
funny.” 

“ I don’t see why it should seem funny,” said Mrs. Eo- 
mayne, coming out from Clara’s hug with hair very much 
tumbled and incarnadined face. “ Mrs. General Grow wears 
white satin.” 

“ And so shall you, mamma darling,” laughed Clara, ‘‘if 
you’ll only hurry up this fitting and let me go again.” 

So great was the boasting of Mrs. Eomayne and the whis- 
pered hints of her coadjutors, that the bridal outfit at the 
Clarendon Hotel was the subject of general discussion every- 
where, and people looked forward to Tuesday, the day appoint- 
ed for the marriage ceremany, with the deepest interest. 

This time it was to be in church, with cards, ushers, and all 
the usual ceremonials, so that every one in Saratoga could 
feast their eyes on the bride’s beauty and the groom’s stateli- 
ness if they chose. 

“ Darling,” said Mrs. Eomayne to her daughter, on the 
Saturday evening before the eventful Tuesday, “ have you 
thought about engaging a maid to travel with you? You are 
such an inexperienced child, and you’re sure to be seasick 
crossing the ocean, since Mr. Lennox will insist on Europe for 
the tour.” 

“Oh, mamma, what should I want with a maid?” j 

“ Everything. Ask Philip if it isn’t the thing to travel with 
a female attendant.” 

Clara turned her laughing glance toward Mr. Lennox, who 
sat in the window, writing letters. 

“ How is it, Philip? Shall I break through all the rules of 
conventionality if 1 venture to appear without a maid?” 

“ It is a mere matter of taste and inclination, Clara. Per- 
haps a maid would be useful to you sometimes.” 

“ Exactly so,” chimed in Mrs. Eomayne; “ and there is the 
nicest young woman at one of the (Jnion cottages. She came 
up to see me this morning to inquire whether my daughter 
had secured a traveling attendant. She came to Saratoga to 
engage with Miss Borrow — that coarse New Orleans woman at 
the Union, you know, love — but Miss Borrow only gives twenty 
dollars a mouth, the stingy thing, and Mary Ann never travels 


110 


Me belle OE SARATOGA. 


under forty. I really think you would find her a treasure. 
She^s to call at four o^'clock for an answer.'’'^ 

“ Engage her, then,'’^ said Clara, carelessly. “ If 1 don’t 
like her, I can easily exchange her for another one when we 
reach Paris.” 

So Mary Ann Atkins was engaged — a soft-voiced, yellow- 
haired woman, with a very insinuating way, and a trick of ad- 
miring everything that came under her view — a “ perfect 
treasure,” as Mrs. Eomayne loudly declared. 

On Monday night, as they separated, Philip Lennox placed 
in his bride’s hand a case containing a bracelet of great 
beauty, a golden band wound round and round with a slender 
line of amethysts. 

“ BVom Greve St. Cceur, darling,” he said. “He will be 
here himself to-morrow.” 

“ The friend who is to be your groomsman?” she asked. 

“Yes; my most intimate and dearest associate, college- 
mate, friend, and confidant, who has returned from a tour in 
Switzerland expressly to make one of our bridal corUge.^^ 

“ Oh, Philip, I hope he will like me!” Clara exclaimed, her 
long lashes drooping, and her hand resting with a little quiver 
in Philip’s grasp. 

They parted — Clara to seek her pillow, and lapse into happy 
dreams of the sunny future before her; Philip Lennox to keep 
his lonely vigil by the window, where his cigar flamed like a 
sullen eye of fire all the night long. 

For as the moment advanced in which his bonds were to be 
sealed for life, they seemed irksome beyond the possibility of 
bearing, and nothing but the solemn promise he had vowed 
beside Wycherly’s death-bed restrained him from even then 
imploring a release from the bride who was thus, in a meas- 
ure, forced upon him. 

“ Courage!” he muttered to himself. “ 1 can bear it as 
I have borne many a bitter thing before. It will be but for a 
life-time, and life is short.” 

Strange thoughts, these, for a bridegroom, on the night be- 
fore his wedding! — while Clara, smiling in her slumbers, 
dreamed only the brightest and sweetest visions. 

If her dream could but have lasted forever! But, alas! the 
waking was still to come! 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


Ill 


CHAPTER XVL 

CLARA IS MARRIED. 

The picturesque little church at Saratoga was crowded long 
before the hour indicated upon the cards, at which I he wed- 
ding was to take place. All the beauty, fashion, and aris- 
tocracy now congregated at the famous Northern watering- 
place were there — some to criticise, some to ridicule, some 
because all the rest of the world were there. 

And at length, when the triumphant peal of music burst in 
a strain of greeting from the gilded pipes of the organ — a sig- 
nal that the party had arrived —every head was turned, every 
breath suspended. 

The cortege was not large, consisting only of Mr. St. Coeur 
and his sister, the bride and groom, and Mrs. Romayne, lean- 
ing on the arm of a pursy old gentleman, with a decidedly 
apoplectic cast of countenance, who had undertaken the part 
of giving the bride away. 

Clara looked radiantly beautiful in her exquisite wedding- 
dress, her fair, oval face slightly flushed, and her swan-like 
throat circled with jewels. 

As they stood at the altar, Greve St. Coeur looked at her 
with the rapt admiration with which he might have regarded 
a beautiful picture, or a flower in full blossom, or a star shin- 
ing softly through the purple mist of evening. 

The brief, impressive ceremony j)i’oper to the Episcopal 
Church was soon over, and Mr. Lennox led his lovely young 
wife down the long aisle, feeling as one feels who has passed 
beyond the possibility of all rescue at last. 

As he mechanically kissed her forehead in the church porch, 
as they were waiting for the carriages, Clara started. 

“ Why, Philip, how cold your lips are!^^ 

“ He is naturally nervous. Miss Romayne — 1 beg your par- 
don, Mrs. Lennox,^^ said Mr. St. Coeur, laughing; and Clara 
blushed like a rose-leaf as the new name fell sweetly on her 
ears. 

“ I suppose 1 ought to be nervous, too, she said, gayly; 

but 1 don^t as yet feel the slightest symptoms of it. Mam*^ 
ma, there is your carriage, for Mrs. Romayne was preparing 
to shed a few desperately squeezed out tears on her daughter's 
shoulder; ‘‘ never mind saying good-bye. We shall have 
plenty of time at the hotel. 

And Mrs. Romayne’ s “ scene was ruthlessly cut short. 


112 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


The wedding-breakfast had been spread in a private parlor 
by the deft fingers of a New York confectioner, to whom car^e 
Blanche had been given by Mr. Lennox, at the instigation of 
Mrs. Romayne, who wished to lose no opportunity of making 
a display at the expense of “ dear Philip.'^ 

And a very artistic affair it was— hot-house fiowers in silver 
epergnes, glittering ices, rare game, crystallized in gold, quiv- 
ering jellies, tropical fruits and cake, hidden in temples and 
garlands of frosted blossoms; while wines sparkled in cut-glass 
decanters, and ice-pails, full of champagne, lurked in the 
background. 

“ Never saw such an elegant spread in my life!^^ said the 
apoplectic old gentleman, while Mrs. General Grow, who had 
been among the invited guests, made herself too busy eating 
and drinking even to find fault. 

When the banquet was at its height. Miss St. Coeur stole 
through the crowd and laid her hand lightly on Mr. Lennoxes 
arm, where he stood talking to Greve St. Occur. 

‘‘ Your wife has gone upstairs to change her dress,^^ she 
said, in a whisper; “ she preferred to go alone, not even allow- 
ing me to accompany her. But for fear you should miss 
her — 

Philip Lennox bowed his head. 

“ I am much obliged to you, Helen. Come, Greve, per- 
haps we had better go, too. Do not disturb our friends. 
Clara has set us a good example in this respect. 

And, arm in arm, they slipped through a side door and 
hastened upstairs to Mr. Lennox’s apartments. 

Clara had expected to find Mary Ann waiting for her, but 
Mary Ann was bidding a sorrowful adieu in the hotel grounds 
to a stylish young groom who had already made considerable 
progress on the stronghold of her affections. 

“ N’im'portey^’ thought our happy young bride; that girl 
is always a restraint upon me, somehow, and I had a great 
deal rather change my dress alone. She’ll be back again 
quite as soon as I shall want her.” 

And murmuring the cadence of some soft little ballad to 
herself, Clara unfastened the orange wreath, and took off the 
white satin dress, trying hard to realize, the while, that she 
was really a wife. 

“ I wonder if it seems as strange to Philip as it does to 
me?” she thought, a smde rippling over the velvet bloom of 
her lips, as she glanced down at the heavy golden circlet on 
her left hand. “ For — ” 

She stopped suddenly in the sunshiny current of her inno- 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 113 

cent thoughts. Philip’s voice in the next room sounded as 
near as if he had been in the same apartment. 

“ The smaller valise, St. Coeur— that is right, thank you!” 

‘‘Mr. St. Coeur’s room,” Clara remembered, with a smile 
at her own start. “ I had forgotten it was so near; and the 
ventilator over the door is open, too. How careless of Mary 
Aim — but of course they will return at once to Philip’s room.” 

“ You had better make haste, Lennox,” said St. Cceur’s 
clear, ringing voice, “ or your bride will be waiting for you 
down-stairs.” 

“Possibly.” 

“ Can I do anything more to help you?” 

“Nothing, thanks.” 

“ I say, old fellow,” ejaculated St. Cceur, with something 
that sounded very much like an energetic slap on the back of 
his companion, “ what are you standing there for, staring out 
of the window as if you had just signed your own death-war- 
rant?” 

“ I have done so, St. Coeur, or something quite equivalent 
to it!” 

Clara had just taken hold of the bell-rope, with the double 
intention of signifying to the gentlemen in the next room that 
they had an unknown auditor, and of summoning Mary Ann 
at the same time, but something in the words her husband 
had just spoken, as well as in their dreary, despairing tone, 
arrested the movement- She dropped the bell-rope, and stood 
silent as a marble statue as St. Coeur’s wondering voice re- 
plied: 

“ r don’t understand you, Phil!” 

“ Yet I spoke plainly enough!” 

“ But Phil-—” 

“ Oh, St. Coeur, let me speak out once, if 1 am to be silent 
henceforth and forever more. Let me relieve my heart for 
one little instant from this overpowering weight.” Philip 
Lennox spoke in a voice that was like the wail of a doomed 
spirit. “ I tell you, man, 1 am miserable!” 

“ Miserable! You, Philip Lennox?” echoed St. Coeur. 
“ Married to a girl as beautiful as an angel, with the wed- 
ding-bells yet sounding through the air! Are you insane?” 

“ Not insane — only wretched. Listen to mo, Greve St. 
Coeur; to your ear, and yours only, will I speak the words that 
must be spoken, or I shall die. I have married this girl not 
because 1 love her, but because I promised my brother Wycher- 
ly, upon his dying couch, that I would do so. 1 have married 
her simply from a sense of duty. She is beautiful^ as you say. 


114 


THE BELLE OF SABATOGA. 


but she is of common origin and low birth, not fitted to be the 
wife of one whom you, Greve St. Coeur, know to be an aristo- 
crat both by lineage and culture. 1 feel as if an iron chain 
were bound about my whole life from this hour!^^ 

“But, Lennox!^^ cried the shocked St. Coeur, “she loves 
you?’^ 

“ Does she? You are mistaken, then — it is my wealth she 
worships. Brought up by a fortune-hunting mother, what 
else has she been taught to look for? But all this is idle talk; 
the deed is done, and, as you say, I have already signed my 
own death-warrant, as far as the actual realities of life are con- 
cerned. To you, the dear and trusted friend of a life-time, 1 
have confided the secret of my sorrow — let it be buried in the 
deepest recesses of your heart. Forget that I have spoken!’^ 

St. Coeur wrung his friend ^s hands. 

“ But is there nothing to be done?^^ 

“ Nothing, Greve — I am past all hope,^^ his friend answered, 
with a melancholy smile. “ Yet, even in this hour of my 
fate, the sympathy of a tried nature affords me some relief. 
Come — we will sentimentalize no longer. My wife (he 
spoke the words with a sneer that Clara could feel, though 
she could not see it) “ will be wondering why her husband 
thus delays. 

The door closed behind the two men, and Clara Lennox was 
left alone — alone with the horror of this new unforeseen revela- 
tion. 

She stood there, her right hand mechanically clasping one 
shining fold of her snowy bridal dress, while the other was 
pressed tightly against her forehead, her eyes large and dilat- 
ed, her face white as the satin of her robe. 

It was but a second or two of time, yet to Clara it seemed 
an age of agony, as the conviction was slowly borne in upon 
her mind that she was a widowed bride; she had heard it from 
his own lips — from the lips of the man whom she had learned 
to love with all the depth and fervor of her rare, tropical nat- 
ure; from the lips of the man who had just sworn at God^s 
holy altar to “love, honor, and cherish her until “death 
did them part.'’’ 

For a moment it seemed as if the awful, overwhelming 
weight of anguish must crush her close to the earth, and she 
would joyfully have welcomed death’s hand to cut the tangled 
knot of her poor young life, and silence forever the agonized 
throbbings of the cast-olf heart which she had given so trust- 
ingly to Philip Lennox’s keeping. 

Poor Clara.! she had yet to learn that death comes not when 


TliE BELLE OE SARAtOGA. 


115 


we mosb yearu for his presence — that life must be lived out, 
whether it be a dark mystery or a brilliant succession of sunny 
hours. 

In spite of the warping influence of her associations from 
childhood, Clara was a girl of spirit — there was in her nature 
a certain elasticity which gave tone and vigor to her whole 
organization. She did not faint away, or subside into mean- 
ingless hysterics, as many would have done in her place— she 
only stood still and tried to think, to rouse her thoughts and 
feelings from the lethargy of despair that was slowly creeping 
over them. 

‘‘There^s time enough, she murmured to herself, “for 
tears, and weakness, and desperation. I must act now!^^ 

She tore off the satin dress as if every touch of its shining 
fabric stung her to madness — she crushed the bridal blossoms 
under her feet in reckless haste, as she put on a black silk 
dress — one that she had worn many, many times before, but 
had hoped never to wear again. It was old and shabby, but 
Clara cared not a whit for that. A half-fitting basquine of 
the same material, a water-proof wrapper, and a round hat of 
black straw, with a deep fall of lace round its edge, complet- 
ed her hurriedly assumed toilet, and at the moment when the 
guests below were gayest in their mirth, and Mrs. Eomayne 
was just beginning to think she must go up and help “ dear 
Mrs. Philip Lennox dress for the journey, that journey was 
commenced. 

Gliding through the twilight like a gray spirit, Clara crept 
down the stairs, passing Mary Ann, her maid, almost face to 
face, and was gone! 


CHAPTER XVII. 

THE MISSIKG BRIDE. 

“ Yes, to be sure, Mrs. Grow, it is a very great trial for a 
mother to part with her only child, even when, as you say, she 
is given to the keeping of one as worthy in every way as my 
son-in-law, Mr. Lennox; but of course I shall live with them 
when they return to the United States, so our separation Vvill 
be but a very brief one, after all.^^ 

So spoke Mrs. Jason Romayno, standing in the hotel hall, 
in a gorgeous costume of lavender silk, and a white lace 
shawl, while her face, always flushed, was now more than 
usually indicative of champagne and lobster salad. 

Mrs. General Grow only grunted in reply, and Mrs. Ro- 
mayne went creaking upstairs, followed by Helen St. Coeur, 


116 


THE teELLE OF SAEAtO^^A* 


who thought it high time to proffer her assistance to Philip 
Lennoxes young wife. But on the landing above they were 
met by Mary Ann Atkins, with a pale, frightened face. 

“ If you please, ma’am, do you know where my mistress is?” 

“ Your mistress!” cried Mrs. Romayne, with wide-open 
eyes. “ Isn’t she in her own room?” 

“ No, ma’am; and her wedding things are all lying about, 
and the wreath crushed, and — ” 

But Mrs. Romayne pushed past Mary Ann, and hurried 
breathlessly into her daughter’s apartment. 

All was confusion there, as Mary Ann had said; the rich 
satin dress lying on the floor, the ornaments strewn carelessly 
round, and the keys of Mrs. Lennox’s newly packed trunks 
lying on the dressing bureau, as if they had been thrown there 
scarce a minute-ago. 

‘‘ Clara!” called Mrs. Romayne. “ Clara! Dear me, she 
must be here somewhere; she can’t have gone far. No doubt 
Mr. Lennox knows.” 

But Helen St. Coeur, who had hastily summoned her 
brother and the bridegroom, soon dissipated that faintly ut- 
tered hope. Mr. Lennox’s pale, perplexed face was a suffi- 
cient answer to Mrs. Romayne’s look. 

“ Philip! where is she — my daughter?” screamed Mrs. Ro- 
mayne, rushing wildly to him. “ Tell me what you have done 
with her — tell me where she is gone!” 

‘‘ I have no more idea than yourself, madame,” he answered. 
“ She will be here preseiitly — we are agitating ourselves, I 
hope, unnecessarily. ” 

But, as he spoke these words, Greve St. Coeur pointed 
silently to the open glass ventilator over the locked door, 
which separated Clara’s room from that which he had occupied 
during the few hours of his stay at Saratoga. As tiie eyes of 
the two friends met, both grew a sliade paler than they had 
been before. 

“ St. Coeur, it can not be possible,” hoarsely whispered 
Philip, “ that — ” 

“ As sure as we both live,” interrupted Mr. St. Coeur, 

she has heard everything!” 

“ Then it is all accounted for!” groaned the bereaved bride- 
groom. “ Poor, innocent little creature — where can she have 
fled to? What means shall we adopt to bring her back once 
more? How could we have been so careless, Greve? Why did 
you not check me when — ” 

St. Coeur shrugged his shoulders. 

“ My dear fellow, I did not even know that this was her 


Tat: feELLt: Of SAtilTOGA* 


117 


room Until this moment. For HeaveiFs sake, do not let 'ns 
waste the precious time in idle recrimination now. The ques- 
tion is, where has she gone, and how shall we recover her?^^ 

While the two friends were thus consulting together in har- 
ried questions, Mrs. Eomayne was shrieking in hysterics in the 
arms of a sympathizing group of ladies, and Miss St. Coeur 
was deluging her with eau-de-Cologne and lavender water, 
after the unalterable custom of women. 

“ She^s gone!’^ wailed Mrs. Eomayne, heedless of the en- 
larging crowd of spectators at the room door; “ my Clara’s 
gone! Oh! what’s to become of us? Why didn’t somebody 
stop her? What were people all thinking about? And just 
as she was married, too — oh, dear, dear! And the passage 
tickets bought on the Havre steamer, and all the trunks 
packed, and the hack waiting at the door — oh, dear! was 
there ever such a wretched mother in all the v/orld.^ Philip, 
why don’t you speak to me? Don’t you know where she is? 
Send for the police! Telegraph for a New York detective! 
It’s all a plot to cheat me out of my daughter, but 1 won’t 
submit to it! 1 won’t, I won’t, I won’t!” 

And Mrs. Eomayne went off into a fresh spasm of sobs and 
cries, the rouge washed off her face by streams of cologne, and 
her lavender dress wofully spotted with the pungent hartshorn. 

Eochefoucauld, the French theorist, has said, “ there is 
always something not absolutely disagreeable to us in the 
misfortunes of our best friends,” and as the ladies surround- 
ing Mrs. Eomayne were, not only 7iot friends at all, but some 
of them openly avowed rivals, not to say enemies, their rude 
glances and nods, and ‘‘ 1 told you so!” expressions of coun- 
tenance, were scarcely to be marveled at. 

And when Mr. Lennox and his friends had departed to 
make the necessary inquiries, and organize a strict search and 
lookout, the suppressed murmurs broke forth in opening sen- 
tences. 

“ So this is the end of the fine wedding!” cried Mrs. Pearl 
Eathbone. “ Well, well, it’s only what might have been ex- 
pected, after all!” 

“ Do you suppose it is an elopement?” eagerly questioned 
Miss Graves. " ^ 

“An elopement! Nonsense!” cried Mrs. General Grow. 
“ Who has there been to elope with? She has changed her 
mind, and given him the slip, and I’ll lay anything that 
mother of hers who lies there shrieking to take all our heads 
off is at the bottom of the whole thing! Oh! I can tell you 
these low adventurers are cunning creatures.” 


THE BELLE OF SABATOGA. 


118 

idiss St. Coeur glanced haughtily up from her position by 
Mrs. Eomayne’s head. 

“ I will trouble you to remember, rnadame,^^ she said, 
“ that you are speaking of the mother of the young lady who 
has married my brother^’s friend 

Mrs. Grow colored, and retreated a pace or two. 

“ I know she loved him,’^ said little Agnes Eathbone, the 
dashing widow^s sister-in-law, “ because she looked at him so 
sweetly always, and when she spoke to him her voice would ^ 
soften so, and — 

“ Agnes,^^ sharply interrupted Mrs. Pearl Eathbone, “ hold 
your tongue, you are talking in a most indelicate manner 

But Helen St. Coeur^s gentle eyes thanked Agnes for her 
words of defense. 

“ I am sure I don’t know how to account for it all,” said 
Mrs. Grow. “It was the bridegroom who ran away before, 
and now it is the bride! Dear me, it will make a sensation at 
the hotel.” 

And Mrs. Grow trundled her fat jewel-decked form away to* 
do her best toward spreading abroad the spicy bit of gossip 
which was to blight poor Clara Ecniayne’s fair name and 
prospects. 

What did alie care for a broken heart, a bereaved bride- 
groom, a life gone to wreck along the sunken rocks of its 
shore? 

It was an item destined to “ create a sensation;” and so 
Mrs. Grow went on her way, only regretting, as she passed 
the locked doors of the breakfast-room, where the waiter was 
busy clearing away the fragments of the wedding dejeuner y 
that she couldn’t have another glass of that gold-sparkling 
charripagne. 

One by one people dropped away, the edge of their curiosity 
worn off, or the appetite for excitement partially sated, and 
Helen St. Coeur found herself at last alone with Mrs. Eo- 
mayne, whose noisy grief had somewhat quieted itself down. 
The doctor, sent for by Helen in her alarm, had come, felt his 
patient’s pulse, presuribed some soothing potion, and talked 
learnedly about “ perfect quiet and composure being desir- 
able,” and Mrs. Eomayne had fallen into a brief, disturbed 
slumber at length. 

While Miss St. Coeur, sitting by her pillow and listening 
nervously for the sound of her brother’s returning footsteps, 
marveled within herself as she thought of the unforeseen man- 
ner in which the festive day had" closed. 

Had she indeed fled, the beautiful young bride, whose love^ 


THE BET.LE OF SARATOGA. 


119 


liness had struck her with an almost reverent surprise when 
she first looked upon her, only that morning, in her bridal 
robes? And what was the motive underlying her conduct? 
A child, as yet, in the bloom and freshness of her sixteen sum- 
mers, a loving, innocent, trustful child, what barbed arrow of 
impulse could have driven her away from the side of one so 
good and noble as Philip Lennox? 

A crimson flush crossed Helen St. Coeur^s pale cheek as she 
thought of all this — as she remembered the years in which she 
had silently and secretly worshiped at the shrine of the man 
who had that very day become the husband of another. No 
one had ever suspected it, no one dreamed of the possibility of 
the thing — why should they? 

Philip Lennox and Helen St. Coeur had been children and 
playfellows almost before they could speak plainly; and as 
they grew older the friendship between Greve St. Coeur and 
young Lennox drew the tie closer yet. She had learned to 
love Philip Lennox almost before she was aware of it, and the 
feeling had grown with her growth and strengthened with her 
strength. It had been very hard, sometimes, to conceaLher 
love — yet not for worlds would she have betrayed its unsought 
existence. 

Helen St. Coeur ’s was essentially a womanly nature, cling- 
ing, tender, and loving, and in the almost daily contact with 
Philip Lennox to which she was subjected it could not but 
ache sometimes with a pain which became almost past bearing. 

And he, unconscious to the last, had given his love to one 
who had thrown it contemptuously from her. Helenas cheek 
burned again as she thought how tenderly she would have 
cherished the precious treasure— how she would have lived for 
his happiness alone. 

Her reverie was interrupted at last by the entrance of her 
brother. 

“ Well?^^ she cried, eagerly. 

“ No news,^’ was his discouraged answer. “ They think 
she must have caught the iiorthward train, though where she 
was going to, nobody knows. 

“ Greve, have you no idea why she disappeared so strange- 

He shook his head. Not even to his dearly loved sister 
would he betray the secret intrusted to him by his friend. 

“ It is a mystery, Helen, which time alone can solve, he 
answered, gravely. 

“And Philipl Is l\e very much distressed?” persisted 
Helen. 


120 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


1 never saw him so much so. Poor fellow! this is hard 
on him!” 

“ I suppose every possible measure has been resorted to for 
her discovery?” 

“ Phil IS hardly the man to leave a stone unturned in such 
a case as this,” answered St. Ooeur. 

“You will, of course, remain here until some tidings are 
received?” said Helen. 

“ Of course; I could not leave poor Phil now. But I trust 
it will not be for long. Undoubtedly there has been some 
misunderstanding. ” 

“ How could there be?” 

“ 1 can not tell, Helen; things happen strangely sometimes. 
Hush! Is not that his step?” 

A slow, weary step, with all the spring and elasticity gone 
out of it — yet Philip Lennox’s step nevertheless. 

As Greve St. Ooeur rose from his seat and joined him in the 
hall his friend’s face, under the white glare of the gas-light, 
looked strangely drawn and altered. There was a stoop of 
the erect shoulders, a languid droop to the head, which 
alarmed the faithful St. Ooeur. 

“ Lennox, you are not ill?” 

“ No; only tired.” 

“ You have no fresh tidings?” 

“None.” 

“ My poor boy,” murmured Greve, caressingly slipping his 
arm through his friend’s, “ this is a heavy blow for you. 
Yet think how much heavier it would have been if — if you had 
loved her.” 

Philip Lennox turned his haggard face full upon St. Ooeur. 

“ Man,” he cried, “ be silent! I did love her! I loved her 
so dearly that, now she is gone, I feel as if a part of myself 
had passed away. And may God forgive me for driving her 
from me so cruelly by the rash words I never meant she 
should hear. Truly He has punished me by revealing to me, 
now that it is too late, how dearly 1 have grown to love her!” 

St. Ooeur stood silent and awed. To grief like this he had 
no words of consolation to utter. The ordinary phrases which 
rise instinctively to one’s lips seemed hackneyed and common- 
place, and he could only put his hand tenderly on his friend’s 
broad shoulder. 

“ Don’t give up so, old fellow,” he said, in low, tremulous 
accents; “ we shall find her yet. She can not have gone far. 
With the precautions you have taken her discovery is next to 
a certainty.” 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


121 


“ My poor little loving Clara.!’^ murmured Lennox^ app ir- 
ently scarce heeding St. Coeur^s words; “ my tender lily bud 
driven away from the heart that should have sheltered you! 
Oh, Greve, how can 1 ever forgive myself? For I loved her — 
I did love her!^^ 

A silence came over the two men — a despairing silence, 
more eloquent than any words. Both felt that Lennox had 
read the secret of his own heart too late. 


CHAPTEK XVIll. 

CLARA FINDS A SITUATION. 

,We must now return to our youthful heroine, whose resolu- 
tion, so suddenly conceived and dauntlessly carried out, had 
spread such a consternation throughout the bridal party of the 
morning. 

The streets of Saratoga were thronged when she glided 
through the hotel grounds and entered the thoroughfare be- 
yond, yet she had no apprehension of being recognized, so 
completely did the gathering twilight befriend her. The silken 
skirts of ladies, opposite whom she sat daily at the table, 
brushed unsuspectiiigly past her — the echo of familiar voices 
sounded on her ear, and once or twice she came almost face to 
face with gentlemen who had raved enough about her beauty 
to know every lineament of the “ Cleopatra-face by heart. 
But her veil was thick, and the semi-obscurity of the atmos- 
phere prevented all immediate danger of recognition, and Clara 
hurried on, her mind full of the necessities of her position. 

She had a vague idea that, if discovered, the law would 
compel her to return to her husband, and shuddering, she 
drew the heavy hoop of gold from the third finger of her left 
hand and slipped it into her pocket. As she did so her hand 
came in contact with the modest little porte-monnaie she had 
placed there scarcely ten minutes ago. 

A smile dawned faintly upon her cold lips. 

“ It was a wise precaution,^"’ she thought. Money is all- 
powerful, even to change one^s identity.’^ 

She entered a hair-dresser’s shop — an obscure little place, 
where the Mite never came, but all the more convenient to her 
on that account. 

“ I want my hair cut off,^’ she said to the little woman in 
spectacles who sat weaving hair behind the counter. “ How 
much is it worth?’^ 

The woman’s eyes glistened greedily as Clara, with an im- 


122 


fflE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


patient movement, let down the glorious purple-black mass 
over her shoulders. 

“ It is beautiful hair, ma’am, she said; “ but we don’t do 
a very great business, and I couldn’t say better than twenty 
dollars, for — ” 

“ Cut it off,” interposed Clara, recklessly, as she sat down. 
“ No — don’t bring a light. My eyes are weak.” 

“ But I can’t see, miss.” 

“ Do the best you can, then. 1 won’t have a light.” 

Secretly wondering within herself, the little woman dili- 
gently sheared away at the black, glossy masses, occasionally 
hazarding a remark or two, to which Clara made no answer. 

“ Are you through?” she asked, as the woman stepped back 
a pace or two. 

“ Yes, miss.” 

“ Give me the money, then.” 

Clara left the shop, her twenty dollars safe in her pocket, 
and her magnificent waves of shining hair lying on the coun- 
ter. Yet she cared not — her girlish pride in her own beauty 
seemed to have deserted her. 

At the next hair-dresser’s establishment she bought a wig 
of coarse, dark-brown hair for about seven dollars, and smiled 
bitterly as she adjusted it on her head to see how its square, 
low line across her forehead disguised the outlines of her face. 

“It is better so,” she thought: “what the -world calls 
beauty has been my curse — I have no further ambition for it.” 

But her shopping was not yet concluded. As she walked 
along, looking cautiously at the gas-lighted windows of the 
shops, which at that end of the town were growing few and 
far between, she paused again to examine a little cap or 
coiffure of coarse imitation lace, with a fluted ruffle surround- 
ing it, and a white apron to match. y? 

She went on and asked the price of these articles. 

“ Only five dollars for the two,” was the answer; and Clara 
bought them, putting them on at once. Her plans had already 
taken definite shape in her mind, and she was putting them 
systematically into operation. 

A pair of steel-rimmed spectacles', of light-blue glass, con- 
sumed three dollars more, and transformed Clara Komayne 
into an odd-looking woman, with the appearance of being at; 
least ten years older than she really was. 

She surveyed herself in the optician’s glass with vague wo!r- 
der whether this reflected apparition were really she, or some; 
strange-looking Phenix that had, as it were, sprung from thei 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


123 


ashes of the beautiful bride who had stood at the altar that 
day! 

“ 1 scarcely need any completer disguise/^ she thought; 
“ and now for the first act of this drama of my new life. I 
must not stop to hesitate or think or I shall assuredly go mad. 
I must not let myself know how rich 1 was this morniiig, how 
miserably, utterly poor to-night. Thank Heaven, 1 have but 
one moment to live at a time, and existence can not last for- 
ever!^’ 

They were the same thoughts that had eddied through Philip 
Lennox’s mind the night before. But Clara's cry came from 
the depths of a crushed mind, and was far, far the bitterest! 

Poor, lonely child — for she was but a child still, with her 
brief sixteen years of privation and hardship. 

How darkly fate was frowning upon her! She would sooner 
have thrown herself into the still waters of Saratoga Lake than 
have returned to the protection of her husband, knowing what 
she now knew of his heart; to seek her mother again was 
equally impracticable, and as for friends — real, disinterested 
friends, Clara had none. 

Yet, youthful and inexperienced as she was, she had a will 
and a native resolution of her own. She would neither beg 
nor starve — yet she would live, independent of the world, and 
her plans were formed. 

Disguised effectually by her false hair and spectacles, she 
boldly went up the steps of the Union Hotel, and, ringing the 
bell, asked to see Miss Borrow. 

Presently the slippered servant came shuffling back. 

“ Miss Borrow was dressing for the evening — what was her 
business?" 

Clara paused a moment. 

“ Tell here I have come to ask for the situation of maid 
that 1 heard about." 

The man went upstairs again, and returned once more, un- 
graciously bidding Clara follow him. 

Miss Borrow's room was rather small, and crowded with all 
sorts of things — from which Clara draw the inference that she 
^as a young lady who did not like trouble. 

She herself stood at the glass, in a crushed silk wrapper fall- 
ing from her shoulders in one unbroken line — a tall, coarse 
woman of some two- or three- and-thirty, with a complexion 
/evidently “ made up " out of lily white and carmine saucers, 
heavy black hair and blue-gray eyes, which stared at you in a 
way which her friends called goufldeut," and her earning 

dubbed “ 


124 


THE BELLE OF SAKATOGA. 


“ Well, young woman, what do you want?^^ demanded Miss 
Borrow, in a voice that corresponded with the coarseness of 
her general appearance. “ Don^t stand staring there, for 
goodness gracious^ sake, but come in and shut the door.^^ 

Clara obeyed, a little dismayed at the cavalier address of the 
lady. 

“ 1 heard you were needing a maid,^^ she began, ‘‘ and I 
thought perhaps I might be able to suit you.’"^ 

“ Hem!^^ observed Miss Borrow, critically surveying the ap- 
plicant from the crown of her head to the soles of her feet. 

Are you French?^^ 

“ No — American.^^ 

“ You've got a French way with you, but may be it's the 
little cap. What's your name?" 

“ Mary Smith," answered Clara, speaking the first appella- 
tion which occurred to her mind. 

“ A horrid, odious name!" unceremoniously commented 
Miss Borrow. “ Can you dress hair?" 

‘‘ Yes, ma'am." 

“ Can you do up Jaces, and flute frills, and fit dresses?" 

“ Yes, ma'am," Clara answered, recklessly, and with a sort 
of blind confidence in the latent skill of the long, beautiful 
fingers that had done so little actual work in their time. 

“ I want my maid to do fine sewing, and to be able to read 
to me — I get nervous sometimes, and require to be read to 
sleep." 

“ 1 could do that, ma'am." 

‘‘ You look pale — 1 hope you're not one of the complaining 
kind?" 

No, ma'am." 

“ How much do you have?" 

Ten dollars," answered Clara, at a venture. 

Miss Borrow's eyes gleamed. 

“ What are your references?" she asked. 

I have none." 

‘‘No reference!" echoed Miss Borrow. 

“ 1 have never lived as lady's-maid j;)efore," Clara answered, 
with a composure which went far to reassure Miss Borrow, 
“ consequently I have no written Reference. " 

" But what have you been doing?" 

“ I have never worked .out. Family misfortunes have ren- 
dered it desirable for me fo earn my own living, and 1 believe 
1 am quite competent to do it as lady's-maid." 

“It's very risky," said Miss Borrow, “ but really," and she 
thought of Clara's cheapness, “ I've almost a mind to try you, 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


125 


1 hope you haven^b any relations; my last maid had so many 
coming to see her ev^ery night that 1 got fairly out of patience. 

‘‘ No, ma^am, none, the girl answered, with a bitterness that 
she could hardly conceal. I am quite alone. 

“ Thab^s well,"^ said Miss Borrow, complacently. “Well, 
let us see; 1 guess you may come a month on trial, at all 
events. But I want you distinctly to understand one thing — 
I don't like your name of Mary Smith, and I always call my 
maids Oelestine; it sounds foreign, and is easily spoken. You 
will not object to that, I suppose?^^ 

“ Not at all, ma^am.-"^ 

“ Very well, Oelestine; when can you come?’^ 

“ At once, if you please; I could stay now.’^ 

“ Then you may as well stay, and do up my back hair; I^m 
worried to death with it.^^ 

She sat down in a low chair, with a motion of her head to 
indicate the little dressing-box in which lay brushes, combs, 
hair-pins, cot^metique s^irjine, bandoline, and various other 
auxiliaries to the “ human hair divine,^^ while Clara, with a 
self-possession and composure which astonished herself, went 
to work and “ did Miss Borrow^s coarse hair in a style that 
was at once novel and graceful. 

“ Dear me!’^ said Miss Borrow, surveying the rear portion 
of her head with a hand-glass, as Clara pinned in a huge arti- 
ficial cactus with a tassel-like droop over the lower puffs, 
“ that’s real Parisian. Where did you learn this, Celestine?” 

“ I really can not remember, ma’am,” the new maid an- 
swered, not thinking it necessary to tell Miss Borrow that she 
had caught the knack almost unconsciously from the fashion- 
able “ artist in hair ” who had arrayed her own lovely tresses 
for two bridals. 

Miss Borrow was delighted with Celestine’s skill and quick- 
ness in looping her sash, tying her multitudinous ribbon 
streamers, and adjusting her ornaments, and finally went 
down to tea in a very amiable frame of mind, leaving Celes- 
tine at work with a pair of fluting-scissors upon a costly Val- 
enciennes-edged pocket-handkerchief. 

She had never fiuted anything before, but she had consider- 
able self-reliance, which, added to feminine ingenuity, was all 
that was requisite in this business; and as she sat alone by the 
shaded gas-light, with the indescribable hum of the great 
hotel sounding round her, like the murmuring, a million 
times magnified, of a bee-hive, in the glow of a summer moon, 
she laid down her work, and almost wondered whether she was 
awake or dreaming. 


126 


THE BELLE OF SAKATOGA 


‘‘It all seems so strange she pondered, to herself, “ so 
very strange! But 1 think I am safe enough here, as Miss 
Borrow’s maid, in spectacles and a brown wig, occupying the 
fourth story of Union Hall! They will hardly think of look- 
ing for me so near, and when once the first vigilance of search 
and pursuit has died away, 1 can seek my fortune elsewhere, 
it matters little in what quarter of the globe/^ 

Clara was right. The anxious seekers that were striving in 
vain to obtain the least clew to her whereabouts, whose hearts 
and minds were strained to the uttermost to solve the problem 
of her disappearance, never once dreamed that all the while 
she remained almost within a stone's-throw of them. 


CHAPTER XrX. 

MISS OLYMPIA BORROW. 

Miss Olympia Borrow, of New Orleans, was not a pleas- 
ant mistress to live with, as Clara soon discovered. Having 
passed her first youth without being able to secure that paragon 
of her hopes and aspirations, a rich husband, she was now des- 
perately striving to make up for the loss of youthful grace by 
artificial resorts. She had some little money, but she was 
nevertheless avaricious in the extremest degree, and nothing 
short of actual necessity would have induced her to go to the 
extravagance of a maid. But she could not herself apply the 
coats of rouge and enamel which gave dazzling brilliance to 
her complexion, nor pencil her eyebrows of the requisite shade 
and shape, neither had she ingenuity in trimming, changing, 
and altering over ball-dresses, coiffures, and hats to meet the 
various exigencies of Saratoga; so that, after all, a maid was 
what might be regarded as a cheap investment. 

“ And Celestine really does very well with a little instruc- 
tion,^^ said Miss Borrow. 

From six in the morning until the chimes of midnight, and 
often later, Celestine was kept employed in her mistress’s be- 
half, often visited by sudden storms of temper, kept standing 
until she thought she should drop, scolded sometimes for doing 
what Miss Borrow had expressly ordered, and sometimes for 
neglecting things which Miss Borrow had never thought of 
mentioning to her. It seemed to Clara at times that she could 
no longer endure this life of fatigue and tyranny — yet she was 
safe here, and that was no mean consideration. 

The second morning after her engagement Clara Romayne, 
as we must still continue to call her, was sitting at her work in 
the farther end of Miss Borrow ’s room ripping apart the 


rat iJKLLli: OF SAllATOGA. 127 

breadths of a soiled canary-colorcd silk dress, wheu the serv- 
ant brought up a card to Miss Borrow. 

The young lady laid down her dog’s-eared French novel. 

“ Miss Graves/’ she read, aloud. “ Ask her to walk right 
up here, James.” 

Clara rose from her seat in some trepidation as the door 
closed behind James’s retreating footsteps. 

“ Where are you going, Celestine?” sharply demanded her 
mistress. 

“Into the other room, ma’am. I — I shall be in the way.” 

“ You will be nothing of the kindl” snapped Miss Olympia. 
“ Sit still, 1 desire you!” 

Her tone admitted of no deliberation, and Clara resumed 
her seat with burning cheeks and hands that trembled so that 
she could hardly hold her work. Would not Aurora Graves 
recognize her? Would not this strange contretemps unravel 
the plot she had so carefully woven? There was scarcely time 
for these vague fears to shape themselves in her mind when 
the door was opened and Miss Graves sailed in, with a great 
rustling of muslin draperies and a scent of houqiiet des violettes. 
She kissed Miss Borrow with what the French call effusiooi, 
vouchsafed Clara a rude stare, and then sat down panting 
from the long flight of stairs she had toiled up. 

“ Who’s that, dear?” she asked, with a nod of her head 
toward Clara, as if the poor girl had been an inanimate piece 
of furniture. 

“ Oh, that’s my new maid. Don’t mind her.” 

“ Your new maid, eh? Parisian?” 

“ No — American, I believe. She dresses hair so neatly, and 
has a positive genius at making up white tulle.” 

“ I wish you’d lend her to me for to-night. Mrs. Grow has 
a reception, and I particularly want to look nice.” 

But Miss Borrow shook her head, laughing. 

“ Nob I, Aurora. 1 don’t want my style to get too com- 
mon, and you must do the best you can without Celestine.” 

So the girls chatted on, and the tumultuous throbbing within 
Clara’s.bosom was beginning to quiet itself down, and the un- 
natural blaze of crimson to fade from her cheek, when ail at 
once a chance word brought back the faint, sickening sensa- 
tion of terror. 

“ Oh, by the way,” said Miss Borrow, “ has anything been 
heard of the runaway bride?” 

“ Nothing at ail,” answered Aurora, indifferently. “ Oh, 
they’ll never hear from her again.” 

“ I suppose the search is still going on?” 


128 


THE BELLE OF SABATOOA. 


“ Oh, yes; Mr. Lennox is determined to find her if she is 
above ground. It"s so scandalous, you know, such an affair 
as that.'’^ 

I never saw that MissEornayne. Was she so very pretty?’’ 

Y-e-es,” doubtfully answered Miss Graves, as if the mat* 
ter was by no means positive; “ pretty enough, 1 suppose, in 
a dark, gypsy kind of way that’s very taking to gentlemen. 
She was too bold to suit me. ” 

“ What can have become of her?” asked Olympia, careless- 
ly, as she stooped to pick up the French novel which had fallen 
from her lap. 

“ I dare say she has run off with some other lover,” an- 
swered Aurora Graves. “ 1 never believed in those Eomaynes; 
and it’s my opinion Mr. Lennox has had a lucky escape 
of it.” 

“ It’s a pity, isn’t it,” laughed Olympia, “ that she didn’t 
run away before she was married, instead of after, for now 
Mr. Lennox is rendered totally ineligible for the other girls?” 

“ Well,” said Mis Graves, with a toss of her head, “ it’s a 
problem to me altogether. 1 don’t profess to comprehend it; 
and I’m only too glad that mamma and I have kept entirely 
aloof from the whole tribe and generation of ’em. One can’t 
be too careful whom one associates with in such a place as 
this.” 

Miss Borrow yawned, and assented. 

” I suppose Mr. Lennox might get a divorce?” 

‘‘ J suppose so. Perhaps he will in time.” 

And the conversation slipped carelessly into some other 
channel, while Clara, with her head bent down closely over her 
work, sewed on, her head giddy with contending emotions. 

The breathless interest with which she had listened to every 
mention of Philip Lennox’s name — the sharp pang which had 
transfixed her heart like an envenomed arrow, when the possi- 
bility of a divorce had been casually alluded to, showed her 
how little these trials had dulled the edges of her sensibility or 
crushed the all-absorbing love which had driven her away from 
her newly wedded husband’s side. 

And while Miss Borrow and Aurora Graves talked on, Clara 
heard not another word they were saying. 

This, then, was the world’s verdict! 

She was looked upon as a heartless flirt, a mere idle co- 
quette, who had left her husband to fly with some dearer ob- 
ject, careless of name, fame, and future life. No one had a 
word of extenuation to plead for her — no gentle sentiment of 
pity or love to find excuse for her conduct; but all humanity 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


129 


turned cruelly upon her in this hour of her sharpest trial. 
Well, it mattered little; she must learn to endure unto the 
bitter end! The sooner she steeled her heart effectually against 
the world'^s criticism the better it would be for her. 

When, at length Miss Graves took her leave, and rustled 
down-stairs again, a sensation of triumph stole into Clara^s 
mind. 

If her disguise had thus baffled one whom she had been 
almost daily, if not hourly, thrown in contact with, there must 
surely be security in its disfiguring completeness. 

She sat up late that night working on the canary-colored 
silk; but Miss Borrow took no thought of that, apparently, 
for the next morning her coarse voice broke in upon Clara’s 
dreams long before seven o’clock. 

‘‘ Celestine! Oelestine!” 

She was standing in the door-way whicn separated her maid’s 
room, or rather closet, from her own, her coarse, unaided com- 
plexion looking strangely seamed and haggard in the fresh 
morning light, and a soiled dressing-robe wrapped around her, 
over which her long black hair streamed carelessly. 

Clara waked instantly. 

“ What is it, ma’am?” 

“ Dear me, Celestine, how like a log you do sleep!” fretted 
Miss Borrow. “ I am hoarse calling you.” 

I’m sorry,” ma’am. ” 

“ Who cares whether you are sorry or not? I wish you’d 
leave off interrupting me, Celestine. I want you to dress 
yourself right off, and run down to the Washington Spring for 
a couple of glasses. Doctor Betard says I must have them 
every morning before breakfast and 1 can’t dress in time to go 
myself. Quick, now; don’t be a snail!” 

Miss Borrow could scarcely have found fault with Clara’s 
lack of expedition; for she was attired in her dark dress, 
water-proof cloak, and close bonnet almost before Miss Borrow 
had decided whether to go back to bed or to commence the 
morning’s toilet. 

And as she walked briskly along the cool, shaded pavements, 
inhaling the delicious freshness of the air, something almost 
like youthful elasticity stole once more into her footsteps. 

Early as it was, the little inclosed space around the Washing- 
ton Spring was already crowded with those who were in the 
habit of drinking the invigorating tonic before their matutinal 
meal, and Clara had some difficulty in working her way 
through the throng, close to the rail. 

She had got her little bottle filled, and was turning away. 


130 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


when her parasol fell from her hand, knocked out of it by 
the uncompromising elbow of a portly old gentleman, whose 
haste somewhat exceeded his politeness. 

Another gentleman close to her stooped, and picking it up, 
handed it to her, with a bow. 

As she murmured an almost inaudible “ Thank you!^^ she 
raised her eyes, and met the unconscious gaze of her husband! 

Tor it was Philip Lennox who had performed this slight act 
of passing courtesy to the poor maid-servant, for such he took 
it for granted she was. 

For one instant, every drop of blood in Clara Eomayne^s 
body seemed to settle, cold as ice, round her heart; then rushed, 
like a stream of molten fire, through her veins. 

His hand had touched hers — his eyes had rested momentarily 
on the thick, black veil that shielded her countenance; and it 
seemed as if her secret was bare to him and to all the world. 

But the breathless syncope of terror passed away, and she 
was yet undiscovered; and with new courage, she turned to 
look after his tall figure, as it passed up the shaded gravel-walk, 
toward the hotel, with Greve St. Coeur walking at his side. 

How pale he looked! What languid restlessness there was 
in every motion! And Clara’s first impulse was to rush for- 
ward, sobbing: 

“ Oh, take me to your heart, my husband! Let me help to 
soothe your grief, and quiet your wearing anxieties! Let my 
life be given up to add to the sum of your happiness — for to 
me it is valueless else!’^ 

But then came the ebb-tide of her passionate feeling, and 
she clasped her hands in one another, until the slender, 
almond-shaped nails cut into the very fiesh! 

He did not love her! There was no spell in her voice, no 
witching in her eye, to lay the gnawing spirit of unrest within 
him. He would but turn coldly from the caresses which were 
absolutely repellent to him; and, thinking of these things, 
Clara crept away, feeling as if she had no part in the joyous 
sunshine that danced over the greensward, no share in earth^s 
rejoicings — a lonely, unpitied outcast from love’s bright world! 

And she was only sixteen, she remembered. How was it 
j^ossible for her to live all the dull, gray years that lay between 
sixteen and three score and ten, the allotted age of humanity? 

Clara thought, with a dull, sickening pang of envy, of lit- 
tle Coralie, resting so peacefully in her quiet grave, vexed by 
no haunting visions of the happiness that might have been 
hers — crushed by no awful weight of disappointment. If she, 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 131 

too, had been mercifully taken away from the evil to come, 
when God^s angels called her fair-haired little sister home. 

Miss Borrow was impatiently waiting when Clara at last 
brought in the health-inspiring draught. 

What an age you have been, she grumbled. ‘^Idare 
say you stopped to flirt with the waiters or somebody^s coach- 
man.'’'’ 

Clara colored in spite of herself. 

“ Indeed, nia^’am, I went and came directly!’'’ she said. 

‘‘ Humph!” grunted Miss Borrow; ‘‘ as if you lower classes 
ever spoke the truth! Quick, now, and get the face powder — 
1 shall be late for breakfast, and I want to be down in time 
enough to see the new arrivals.” 

For Miss Borrow, fresh from her pillow, and Miss Borrow en 
grande toilette, with cheeks heightened by artificial bloom, and 
a satin smooth complexion, were two altogether different per- 
sons. 

Moreover, the fair Olympia’s temper, before breakfast, was 
as savage as a Bengal tigress, and Clara’s most anxious en- 
deavors to please met with anything but success. 

She did not exactly scratch her maid, nor box her ears, but 
she practiced every other mode of torture known in the femi- 
nine repertoire^ both verbal and otherwise, and it was not until 
she had sailed down to breakfast in a morning wrapper of 
chintz-colored organdie, and hair puffed in the most elaborate 
style, that poor Clara sat down to rest an instant before she 
commenced the Augean task of “ putting to rights ” the dis- 
ordered chaos of thijigs with which the capricious Olympia 
had managed to strew the apartment. 

Surely, it was no bed of roses, this new life of hers! 


CHAPTEli XX. 

AT THE GYPSY CAHP. 

It was the next day after these occurrences that Miss Bor- 
row, being robed gorgeously by her patient and all- enduring 
maid for a picnic a few miles out of the village, paused on the 
threshold of her door to say: 

“ Oh, by the way, Celestine, you can rip up the white India 
muslin dress while I am gone, and wash it. I dare say the 
laundress will let you come down there, if you tell them Miss 
Borrow particularly requested it — and if not, bring a pail of 
hot water up here and do it. And then you can just smooth 
it over with an iron, and puff the trimming over rose-col orcd 
ribbon^ and sew on the l^ce, and get it ready for me to wear!” 


132 


THE BELLE OF SAKATOGA. 


And Miss Borrow tripped off d.own-stairs, swinging her 
white lace carriage parasol as she went, while poor Clara, 
already wearied ont by her mistresses exactions, leaned her 
head upon the window-sill and. cried quietly to herself. 

‘‘ What’s the matter, Celestine?” asked Jeanie, the good- 
humored, freckle-faced Scotch chamber-maid, as she came in 
with broom and duster. “ Sure, what is there to cry about? 
Has the old cat been scolding you again? Dear knows, I 
wouldn’t put up with her temper as long as there was an hon- 
est living to be got by sweeping and scrubbing. What is it, 
Celestine, I say?” 

“ l^othing,” Clara answered, smiling faintly, except that 
I’m very tired, and my head aches dreadfully, and Miss Bor- 
row has left me this dress to rip up and wash before she comes 
back.” 

Jeanie shrugged her shoulders as she looked at the crumpled 
mass of muslin on the floor. 

Is that it? I’ll lay the old cat meant you should not waste 
much time while she was gone. Now look here, Celestine, 
you just lie down and have a wee bit of a nap and go out for 
a walk, and I’ll see the dress is done. There’s Harriet, just 
getting up from a fever, above stairs — she's the chamber-maid 
on the parlor floor, you know, and wishin’ she had something 
to do besides countin’^her fingers — she’ll rip it apart for you, 
I know, and I’ll get Sally, tne second laundress, to do it up, 
so don’t fash yourself.” 

You are very kind, Jeanie,” said Clara, raising her heavy 

eyes. 

“ No, I’m not,” said Jeanie, stubbornly. Get your bon- 
net, I say, and go out for a walk, and if your head ain’t better 
for the fresh air, lie down for a sleep. I wonder if Miss Bor- 
row thinks you’re made of India-rubber.” 

Clara was but too glad to act on the suggestion of the good- 
natured chamber-maid, and the touch of the cool September air 
on her burning forehead was like a tonic, as she wandered 
down the village street, unconscious whither her weary footsteps 
tended. 

Is that yourself, Celestine?” musically demanded a brisk 
Irish nurse-girl, who was out for a morning promenade with 
her little fair-haired charge. 

Clara knew her well by sight, for the lady who employed her 
occupied the suite of rooms next to Miss Borrow at the hotel 
she had just left. 

And is it for a walk you’re out this fine morning? Sure, 
there’s none better than out beyant the pine grove, where the 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


133 


gypsies^ tent is, alanna! Will yez come along wid me and tlie 
childer? Faix, anMt^s all 1 can do to manage ^eni alone!’^ 

“ Me walk with Tina/^ lisped the younger child, a pretty 
little white-robed creature, with wide blue ribbon sashes just 
the color of her own eyes; and she ran to Clara^s side, clasping 
her hand with infant confidence, for there was always something 
about Clara Eomayne that won the love and trust of little chil- 
dren. 

And Clara, indifferent whither she went, strolled along 
with Margaret Eourke and her little people, until they 
reached the encampment of gypsy tents whither she had been 
with Wycherly Lennox in the days of her first engagement. 

Alas! how fatal the name of Lennox had been to her life! 

“ They went away awhile, but they’re back again, ^’remarked 
Margaret, as they stood looking at the dirty white tents gleam- 
ing through the jagged trunks of the old pines, with here and 
there a straggling fi^gure or two. “ Did you ever have your 
fortirF told, Celestine darlint?’^ 

“ Yes, once,” she answered, dreamily. 

“ Sure, did yez, now! And when?” 

“Oh! a long time ago,’^ and Clara sighed to remember that 
what had seemed almost like the progress of years to her was 
but a few weeks, after all. 

“ And did it come true, honey?” persisted Margaret Eourke. 

“ Did what come true?” 

“ The fortin’, sure, Celestine.” 

“Yes — no — I forget. Oh, Margaret! don’t talk to me 
now.” 

“ Is it that bad your headache is? Sit down, honey, on this 
smooth board, back o’ the tent here, and I’ll lave ye wid the 
childer a minute, vvhile I just run up to where Mike Eooney 
and his wife be, a step beyant, to see if Katy’ll come down and 
have her fortin’ told wid me. Unless yez’ll come, Celestiiie. ” 

“ No, I would rather sit and rest, Margaret, with the chil- 
dren.” 

And Clara sunk rather than sat down, her head leaning 
against a low pine bough just back of one of the smaller tents, 
where she was sure of a few minutes quiet and seclusion 

“ Me go and get little sticks for Tina to make picture-frames 
of?” proposed the little child, who had been her special com- 
panion. 

“ Eun along, then, darling,” said Clara, as she laid the 
dimple-faced baby on her lap, wondering sadly as she did, 
whether all “ women-children ” were born to the same sorrow-j 
. ful hermitage which had bung over her own life, 


134 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


“ You had better perish in your sweet babyhood, little one, 
than live to suffer as I have suffered, was her thought, as the 
infant smiled up in her face, and stretched its little hands 
toward her, with a soft, cooing sound. 

And then, as she bent to listen, another sound struck upon 
her ear — a low, suppressed voice, gradually throwing off the 
restraint which had hitherto oppressed it within the tent. 

Clara grew pale as she caught its well-known intonations 
It was the voice of her mother, and replying in loud, angry 
accents came the harsh tones that she recognized as those of 
Black Abe, the gypsy fortune-teller. 

“ You have played rnefalse!’^ Mrs. Romayne cried. “ Y^ou 
took the money, and promised me solemnly to keep away!^’ 

“ Easy, now, old woman, easy,^' grunted the other, speak- 
ing as if he had a pipe in his mouth. “ What harm am I 
doing here?” 

• “What harm? As if I didn’t know that you could be here 
only to bleed me of yet a little more! What did you send for 
me for? Tell me!” 

The man laughed a low, disagreeable laugh. 

“ Because I wanted to see you, my dear wife.” 

“ Because you wanted money; but you’ll not get it!” 

“ Halloo!” ejaculated the gypsy; “ what’s up now? Seems 
to me you’r-e talking in a very independent sort of way.” 

“ I am independent,” answered Mrs. Romayne. 

“ Oh! if that’s the case, I’d better close up negotiations 
with you, and try my luck with my little daughter.” 

Clara’s blood grew chill in her veins as she listened — the 
awful truth revealed itself to her — she listened with sickening 
eagerness to hear her mother’s denial of the mysterious asser- 
tion — but Mrs. Romayne’s words only confirmed what Clara 
most dreaded to hear. 

“ It is too late, now,” she said, sneeringly; “ your daughter 
is gone!” 

“ Married, you mean,” he said. 

“ No; I mean gone!” 

“ Gone gone where?” ejaculated Black Abe, incredulously. 

“ I don’t know any more than you do. She has run away 
— left us all.” 

“ What for, in the name of perdition?” 

“ Nobody knows — I, least of all,” Mrs. Romayne answered. 

“ I heard something about a runaway bride, a week or two 
ago — was that the onef” questioned Black Abe. 

' “Y’-'es.” 

A low imprecation broke from the gypsy’s profane lips, 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 135 

“ You\e brought your daughter up nicely/^ he sneered; 
“ an ornament to her sex^ she is!""^ 

“ She is your daughter, too!^’ flashed back Mrs. Eomayne. 

“ There^s her husband/^ hazarded Black Abe, apparently 
taking no notice of her taunt. “ Hefll do the polite thiug by 
his old father-in-law, I suppose 

“ You’d better try it, if you want to be given in charge of 
the police. Philip Lennox is not the man to stand any of your 
bullying insolence!” 

“ Thank 3 W 1 , my dear,” rejoined the man; your tongue 
don’t grow any shorter as it grows older, I see. But look here, 
Sabrina, don’t let’s quarrel. What’s the use?” 

“ I don’t want to quarrel, I’m sure,” she answered, sullenly; 
‘‘but when 1 am cheated, and swindled, and overreached in 
every direction — ” 

“ Who’s cheating you? Come, now, who’s overreaching 
you?” 

“ You are!” 

“ Come, Sabrina, let’s look at things a little reasonably. I 
wouldn’t see you in want, old woman, and not stretch out a 
hand to help you.” 

“ 1 thought I had helped you,” she responded, bitterly. 

“ So you did, Sabrina, I’ll say that for you. But I had a 
streak of bad luck — nobody can look for good luck aH the time, 
can they? — and had to come back to the old pals here, and they 
was a-coming back here, where there’s good business to be done 
yet, and what could I do? I’m not poaching on your ground, 
if the girl has really cut and run, as you say she has, and the 
husband turns crusty; where would be the use? You’re cry- 
ing out a long while before you’re hurt, old girl.” 

“ Then why did you send for me?” 

“Just to know what your plans were.” 

“Your interest in my plans is of quite recent date.” 

“ Well, suppose it is, can’t you give me credit for a streak 
of human nature here and there? Come, what are you going 
to do?” 

“ I shall leave Saratoga soon — how soon I can not exactly 
tell. I have only remained to make sure that Clara’s where- 
abouts can not possibly be ascertained. I suj)pose 1 shall begin 
the world anew somewhere, now that there is no hope of find- 
ing her. Oh, it’s hard to be within a hand’s length of fortune 
and lose it all!” 

“ Is he gone?” 

“ Who — her husband? Yes, he left Saratoga this morning.” 

“How would it do to follow him up?” 


136 


THE BELLE OE SARATOGA. 


‘‘ It woaldn^t do at all. I tell you, he’s been bled just 
about as much as it will answer, already. No; there’s nothing 
to be gained by that.” 

“ Now, look here, Sabrina,^’ said the man, insinuatingly, 
“ I won’t be hard on you, when things happen ugly-like as 
they do now, and you mustn’t be hard on me, old woman. 
Bless your heart! we must all live and let live. Give me ten 
dollars, and 1 11 keep dark.” 

“ I won’t give you a cent — and you’ll keep dark, whether 
you want to or not. While Clara was on my hands, I was in 
your power; but I’m not any longer. I don’t care if all the 
world knows to-morrow that you are my husband and Clara’s 
father; so make the most you can out of that!” 

A low, half-suppressed sound, like the growl a wild beast 
utters before he springs, broke from Black Abe — but Mrs. 
Eomayne stood undaunted. Then followed a minute or two of 
utter silence — apparently the man w'as thinking. 

His meditations proved favorable to Mrs. Eomayne’s view of 
the matter, if one might judge by their spoken results. 

“ Ten dollars, Sabrina! Only five, then, old girl! 1 swear 
to you I haven’t a copper until I can get back to the old trade 
of fortune-telling.” 

‘ ‘ There is a dollar bill. I’m as poor as you are, Abe, only 
you won’t believe it.” 

“ A dollar! Come, don’t be mean — make it three,” he 
imp^’ tuned. 

“1 will not. I have given you more than 1 can spare 
already, and now I want to know what terms w^e part on.” 

But Clara had heard enough, and little Ella, pulling at her 
dress, was urging her to come away in another direction, with 
a child’s persistent coaxing. 

She rose slowly, with the sleeping babe in her arms, and 
walked away, although her knees trembled beneath her, and 
the tall old pine-trees seemed to swim and rock against the 
dazzling blue of the cloudless September sky. 

This, then, was the mystery of her birth, so carefully hid- 
den from her — this was the father whom she could remember 
as held up to her, a “ lUe noir,'^ from her infancy upward, 
and of whose actual existence she had never been quite certain. 

A strolling gypsy — a ruffian — a common extortioner! Clara's 
cheeks burned as she thought of the coarse fortune-teller as 
her father, not so much on acconnt of the shadow it would re- 
flect upon her life, as because it seemed to stretch a still wider 
gulf between herself and Philip Lennox. She felt, with pain- 
ful acuteness, that she was still uiiworthier of him than before. 


THE BELLE OF SAKATOGA. 


137 


Ifc was not strange that he had recoiled from her — the instinct 
of his high-born nature had at once recognized in hers the an- 
tagonistic elements. The daughter of a strolling vagrant, 
and a bold adventuress! Clara felt bitterly humiliated as she 
thought of it in the hard, unwelcome light of this new revela- 
tion! She had done well in leaving him of her own free will 
before he himself had been obliged to pronounce the words 
that separated them forever — she would do better still to avoid 
his path through life, and never even to let him know that she 
lived. 

“ I can love him still,^’ she thought; “ I can worship him 
afar off, as the Eastern devotee adores the orb of day — but 
nearer I must never dare to approach. We were sufficiently 
estranged before, but what I have this day learned draws a 
gulf between us that never, never can be crossed again.'’'’ 

With these thoughts circling through and through her brain 
she wandered on, how long and how far she herself could 
hardly have told, and finally, when rosy-cheeked Margaret 
Eourke met her, she stared vaguely at the girl as if she did 
not recognize her. 

“ Sure, it^s the mischief of a time l\e had finding yez,'’^ 
she said, as she took the baby out of Clara^s arms; ‘‘ an^ why 
did yez go and lave the cool, shady place, wid your face as red 
as me shawl entirely 

But Clara did not answer — she walked silently on by Mar- 
garet^s side, while the girl chattered away of Mike Kooney 
and his wife,^^ and of the “ iligantfortin’ that had been told 
her for a quarter of a dollar by some old gypsy hag or other, 
but she heard not a single word. 

“ It’s ill I think ye are,” Margaret Eourke said, as she took 
the children into their own room to dress for dinner. ‘‘I’d 
lay down a bit if 1 were you, and slape it off. ” 

Clara followed the honest girl’s counsel in one respect — she 
did lie down on the bed in her hot, stifling little room, where 
Jeanie brought her a soothing cup of tea and sundry nauseous 
doses of camphor and water, and inquired kindly from time 
to time “ if she wasn’t a little better.” 

Poor Clara ! As she lay there with her throbbing head buried 
in the pillows, her pain of body scarcely so agonizing as the 
pain of her mind, it seemed to her as if no more welcome fate 
could befall her than death! 

When Miss Borrow returned, she was much astonished and 
not overpleased to find her maid prostrated with the effects of 
a violent headache, and unable to do her hair in the shining 
puffs so much envied by the other belles of Saratoga. 


138 


THE BELLE OF SAKATOGA, 


‘‘ 1 hope you’re not going to have a fever/’ said Miss Bor- 
row, discontentedly. If I thought you were going to be 
sick, I’d discharge you at once!” 

‘‘lam not going to be sick,” Clara answered, in a tone so 
low that it was scarcely audible, while Jeanie, the chamber- 
maid, muttered some not overcomplimentary remark con- 
cerning “ the Christian charity of some people!” 

And Clara spoke the truth. A strong constitution and the 
fresh elasticity of early youth, joined to a will that absolutely 
refused to give way, saved her from the impending illness that 
for a few hours threatened her. 

The time of her release was not yet! 


CHAPTER XXL 

PHILIP LEHHOX’S PHOTOGKAPH. 

Clara Romayne had been in the service of Miss Olympia 
Borrow scarcely more than a week, when Destiny’s finger 
rather roughly turned over for her a new leaf in the Book of 
Fate. 

She was just beginning to tell herself that she could no 
longer endure the life of hardship and tyranny she \7as now 
enduring. 

Health and spirits seemed alike to give way under the un- 
natural strain; and yet, lonely and unprotected as she was, 
Clara looked with a shuddering sort of horror upon the mere 
possibility of being again thrown upon the tender mercies of 
the world. 

And while she was vainly trying in her mind to reconcile 
these conflicting arguments, the matter was decided for her 
by what would at first appear as the most trifling of circum- 
stances. 

Among the very few relics of her life in the past, which she 
had preserved with a longing, lingering tenderness, was a small 
photograph of Philip Lennox, which she had one day playfully 
abstracted from his pocket memorandum-book, and which all 
the ivory miniatures and locket-framed likenesses which he 
had presented to her by way of ransom had failed to win 
back; and this picture she carried in a small envelope next to 
her heart, taking it out sometimes to gaze at and weep over, 
when she was alone, and the weight of sorrow seemed to press 
too heavily upon her girlish heart. 

It was at once her greatest pleasure and keenest grief to 
feast her eyes upon the outlined features of him who had been 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. . 139 

to her so inexpressibly dear — who was still so passionately 
idolized in the deepest recesses of her heart of hearts. 

So it happened that one evening, when Miss Olympia Bor- 
row, dressed in the self-same canary-colored silk over which 
poor Clara had spent so many dreary hours, had gone down- 
stairs to try her matrimonial chances at the “ hop which was 
to take place that evening in the hotel at which she boarded, 
her wearied maid stole quietly into her own room, and with 
her head leaning against the side of the window, drew from 
her bosom the little carte-de-visite which was now all that was 
left to her of the beautiful romance of her girl-life. 

She was absorbedly bending over it, when a footstep 
creaked stealthily in the other room — the step of Olympia 
Borrow, who had a cat-like sort of fashion of suddenly pounc- 
ing down upon her maid when poor Clara least dreamed of 
her vicinage. 

Whether she expected to find “ Celestine ravaging the con- 
tents of her trunks, or engaged in arson, murder, or forgery. 
Miss Olympia never had made quite clear to her own mind, 
but she considered it quite a diplomatic proceeding to take 
Celestine by surprise whenever she conveniently could, and 
sometimes when it was decidedly inconvenient. 

“ This sort of people are always up to some deceitful piece 
of mischief or other, said Miss Borrow, maliciously, to her- 
self; “ and there’s a stuck-up sort of way about Celestine of 
late that I don’t half like! I shall certainly catch her at 
something if 1 only keep trying long enough.” 

And on this occasion, as she tiptoed softly into the room in 
her satin slippers, for the ostensible purpose of getting a silver 
scent-bottle which she had, not unintentionally, left behind, 
and saw Clara absorbed in gazing on something in the little 
sleeping-closet beyond her own room, she jumped at once to 
the conclusion that “ the hour and the woman ” had come at 
last. 

“It’s my watch,” she thought within herself, “or my 
porte-monnaie, or else one of Aunt Sylvania’s letters — oh! the 
deceitful, treacherous thing! But I knew all along that there 
was something under that meek, soft-voiced way of hers, and 
she shall not impose upon me long!” 

The unfortunate setting of her slippered foot upon a creak- 
ing board of the floor roused Clara from her reverie. 

With, a sudden start, not unlike that of a guilty person — 
for to Clara it seemed actually a species of positive guilt to be 
looking into the handsome pictured face of her lost husband — 


140 


THE BELLE Of" SAIiATOGA. 


the girl hid the photograph ia the folds of her dress, and 
turned with a face like scarlet to confront Miss Borrow. 

The fair Olympia sprung at her as the cat, to which we 
have aforetime likened her, springs upon its prey, and caught 
her arm with an almost masculine ferocity of grasp. ^ 

“Good Heaven, Miss Borrow cried the terrified Clara, 
who could only conjecture that her mistress had gone mad ; 
“ what is the matter?^^ 

“ The matter panted Miss Olympia; “ the matter! Oh, 
good gracious, only to hear the bold-faced thing! But I 
thought I should catch you at it. 1 knew you couldiiT be all 
right, you sly, deceiving 23iiss. Give it up to me this minute 
— this very minute !^^ 

“ Give up what?^^ asked Clara, in terror. 

Miss Olympia gave a little shriek, as if the girBs hardened 
wickedness was entirely too much for her verbal powers of ex- 
pression. 

“ The watch — the porte-monnaie — the — the thing of mine 
that you’ve got hidden away there!” she cried, making a dive 
at Clara’s dress. 

But, Clara, quicker than Miss Borrow, had anticipated her 
movement, and drawing the envelope from its hiding-place, 
stepped back a pace or two, turning from red to pale, with 
alternate changes of color. 

“ Give it to me!” screamed Miss Borrow, vainly striving to 
snatch it from Clara’s grasp; “ you thief — you abandoned 
character! Give back what you have stolen from my trunks!” 

“ 1 have stolen nothing. Miss Borrow,” Clara spoke, with a 
choking voice. “ What 1 hold in my hand is my own prop- 
erty.” , 

“ A likely story P’ interrupted the indignant woman. “ Give 
it up, 1 say!” 

“ I will not!” 

At these v/ords of cool defiance Miss Borrow, hissing but a 
cry like that of some wild animal baffled in its prey, made an- 
other rush at Clara, and after a moment’s vain resistance on 
the part of the trembling and terrified girl, succeeded in wrest- 
ing from her the photograph, which was torn half-way across 
its middle in the brief struggle. 

Clara, uttering a despairing cry, veiled her burning face with 
both her hands. 

“ Ah — h — h — h!” sibillated Olympia, with an evil light com- 
ing into her hard eyes; “so it’s a picture, is it.^ Gracious 
mercy! it’s Mr. Philip Lennox!” 

For Miss Borrow had more than once seen Philip Lennox at 


tHE BELLE of SARATOGA. 


141 


the same assemblies which she was wont to frequent at the vari- 
ous hotels, although she had never been introduced to him, 
and every feature and outline of his singularly handsome 
countenance were familiar to her. She looked up fiercely at 
Clara. 

“ How came you by this, you jade?^^ she demanded, savagely. 

You have no right to ask me such a question/^ Clara an- 
swered, pale, yet defiant. 

• “ But you shall answer itT^ 

I shall not answer 

Miss Borrow looked at her in a slow, taunting way, whose 
very silence was insult beyond measure, and finally broke the 
hush in a mocking accent: 

“ A pretty maid 1 have got! A nice character l\e taken 
to my very home! Now 1 fcgin to understand why Mr. Philip 
Lennoxes newly made wife fied and left him in the very hour 
of their bridal. She had good reason to leave him, and you — 
you were at the bottom of all this, you good-for-nothing, lying 
hussy — you shameless flirt — you — 

‘‘ Stop!^ interrupted Clara, pale to her very lips, and 
trembling like the leaf of the aspen-tree. “ You have no right 
to speak to me in that way. 1 will not bear it.^^ 

“ No right to speak to you!"'’ sneeringly echoed Miss Borrow. 
“ You will not bear it? 1 should like to know how your fine 
ladyship is going to help yourself? A nice person, you, to lay 
down the law to those who are your betters! How dare you 
open your mouth in my presence? Go back to Mr. Philip 
Lennox, who has cast you off as you deserve — plead your cause 
to him!"" 

And Miss Borrow had the satisfaction of seeing that this ran- 
dom shot ‘‘ told in the increasing pallor and tremulous shiver 
of her wretched victim, as Clara shrunk back into the shadows 
of the half-lighted room. 

You to separate husband and wife!"" Miss Borrow went 
on, her hard, metallic voice never for an instant softening, or 
growing gentler in its shrill accent; ‘‘ you to break up a mar- 
riage, with your false hair and your spectacles, and your big, 
staring eyes! Look at yourself in the glass, once! IJpoii my 
word, I do believe this world is going mad ! Leave the room 
this instant, girl! 1 discharge you from my service, and as 
you go before the month is up, of course you will not have 
the insolence to ask for any wages. If you want money, go to 
Philip Lennox and get it! I dare say he will buy you off 
cheaply!"" 

“ Miss Borrow,"" said Clara, fairly roused out of the leth- 


142 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


argy of her terror and agitation, and recovering some of the 
energy belonging properly to her nature, “ how dare you use 
such language to me! 1 will leave your service gladly, but I 
will not b^e spoken to thus.'’^ 

Miss Borrow broke into a harsh laugh, which was more a 
scream in its mocking tone. 

“ You will and you will not. Let me tell you, girl, you 
ought to be very thankful that you do not leave this room in 
the charge of a policeman! Why, 1 tremble to think of the 
contamination to which I have so long unconsciously been ex- 
posed. 

And Miss Borrow shuddered with virtuous dread, as she 
spoke — the discretion of thirty-three well-ripened summers had 
doubtless been much endangered by the companionship of the 
shy maid who never spoke save v/hen she was addressed, and 
whom her mistress hardly seemed to consider in the light of a 
human creature like herself, but rather as a mere machine. 

‘‘ Miss Borrow,^^ Clara said, “ I am as pure and innocent as 
yourself, and were I not, alas! totally friendless, you would 
never dare to address me as you have done. I have no apolo- 
gies to make, no excuses to plead. There is and has been, in 
my conduct, nothing that needs either. 1 leave your service 
no less at my desire than your own; as for wages — 

“ As for wages,^^ abruptly interrupted Miss Borrow, “ you 
will get none. Come, clear out!’^ 

As for wages, calmly resumed Clara, “ I would not de- 
mean myself by accepting at your hands one single cent, how- 
ever well earned it might be. 

She said no more, but, closely watched by the relentless 
Olympia, she tied on her bonnet before the glass, and donned 
the well-worn water-proof cloak, and thick black veil, reso- 
lutely keeping back the tears that so fain would have fallen, 
sooner than give the unwomanly woman whose sharp eyes 
were unwinkingly upon her the satisfaction of seeing them 
fall. 

And then, spurned from the poor shelter she had temporarily 
gained, and without home or friends to turn to, Clara Ro- 
mayne went out into the starlight. She had scarcely set her 
foot upon the sidewalk, however, before a light touch fell on 
her shoulder, and the voice of Jeanie, the Scotch chamber-maid, 
sounded with welcome accent in her ear. 

“ Whisht said Jeanie. “ I heard it all— and the Lord 
send her as cruel a judge some day as she has been to you. 
It^s not right for you to be out this time o’ night. . Come 
back, and stay with me — my bed’s a narrow one, but it’ll go 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 143 

hard but therein be room for you this night. To-morrow^s a 
new day. There, there, dear, don^t cry.^^ 

And upon Jeanie^s kind shoulder Clara wept the passionate 
tears which pride had repressed so short a while ago. 

She passed tlie night with Jeanie, and in the early train 
next morning she was a passenger; her slender means nearly 
exhausted with the sum of money which was absorbed by a 
ticket for New York. 

New York is a great place,^^ she thought; “ surely I 
can find some way to earn a living in New York.^^ 


CHAPTER XXII. 

ADRIFT OH THE WORLD. 

The southward-bound train, always well filled, was, now 
that the close of the Saratoga season approached, crowded to 
Ihe verge of suffocation, and Clara was glad to obtain a quar- 
ter of a seat near the door, the other three quarters being 
amply filled by a fat old lady, with a wicker basket, a squirrel 
in a tin cage, and more brown paper parcels than Clara could 
count stowed round her in various directions. 

“ I hope 1 don’t crowd ye, ma’am,” saifl the old. lady, apol- 
ogetically, and Clara answered: 

“ No — oh, certainly not,” in an absent sort of way. 

“ Going far?” demanded the old lady; but Clara’s reply, 
spoken in too low a tone for her to catch its meaning in the 
noise and bustle that surrounded her, gave no encouragement 
to any further dialogue. For Clara was thinking, with a sad 
and sorrowful heart, of the last time she had traveled in those 
cars. Not three months ago — yet to her it seemed to embrace 
the incidents of a life, time — the joys, the sorrows that might 
suffice to fill an ordinary existence. 

She thought of Wycherly Lennox’s handsome face as it 
beamed upon her then, and remembered that it was now lying 
beneath the coffin-lid, to smile and beguile no more. 

She thought of Philip, her wedded husband, whom, in all 
probability, she should never behold again, and wondered, as 
she recalled how strangely the links of her singular fate were 
interwoven, one with another. And now that the brief dream, 
the bright illusion was over, and the door was closed u})oii all 
that had gone before, where was she going? Whither did her 
footsteps tend? And what new trials and sufferings had a re- 
moreless destiny reserved for her in the future? 

As the cars moved slowly out of the depot, with a shrill 
shriek of warning, and the old lady beside her held vigorously 


144 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


on to her squirrel’s tin cage, a last detachment from the hotel 
Scrambled on board, and a well-known voice, in loud high- 
pitched accents, sounded on Clara’s ears — the voice of her 
mother! 

She half started up at first, with the instinct of flight, but 
then she sat down again, remembering the completeness of her 
disguise, even beneath the black veil, whose close folds ren- 
dered it oppressive for her to breathe in the confined atmos- 
phere of the railroad car. 

She was safe enough, and to change her seat would only at- 
tract useless attention, so she remained quiet, although her 
heart beat painfully, and her cheeks burned as if her veins had 
been filled with molten fire instead of blood. 

“ No seats!” cried Mrs. Eomayne, discontentedly; “ I think 
these car companies ought to be made to provide accommoda- 
tions for people! I’d sue ’em if 1 was a man — and me ready 
to drop, too, with the walk I’ve had, for 1 wasn’t ready when 
the hotel omnibus started, and everybody makes a point of 
being so unaccommodating to poor me!” 

“Take this seat, ma’am,” said an unfortunate old gentle- 
man, whom Mrs. Eomayne stared directly at, and who had 
met her once or twice at Saratoga. Eheumatic and tired out 
though he was, he preferred standing to the reproachful look 
in Mrs. Eomayne’s eyes, which said so plainly, “ If you’re a 
gentleman, you’ll get up and giv^e me your seat.” 

“ Oh! dear. Colonel Ordway, I’m sure 1 wouldn’t incom- 
mode you — very much obliged. I’m sure; and if this seat 
wasn’t quite so near the door, where all the dust and cinders 
fly in — but I dare say I can stand it for a little while.” 

“ Have you heard anything from your daughter as yet, 
ma’am?” asked Colonel Ordway, as he helped to establish 
Mrs. Eomayne and her baggage in a seat scarcely a yard be- 
hind the identical “ daughter,” who sat motionless as a carved 
figure of “ silence.” 

“ Not a word; not a single word. Oh, colonel! the suspense 
I’m enduring is beyond all description.” 

Clara felt a remorseful twinge in her heart — a momentary 
impulse to go to her mother, throw her arms around her, and 
beg her to accompany her in her lonely life-pilgrimage, dreary 
though it might be. For, after all, they were mother and 
daughter, and Clara’s poor, desolate heart yearned for some 
loving, sympathizing companion. She had already learned, 
brief though her experience had been, that there is nothing in 
all the world so hard to endure as utter loneliness. 

“ Such a brilliant match as she had just made!” went on 


THE BELLE OF SAKATOGA. 


145 


Mrs'. Eomayne, shaking out the folds of her pocket-handker- 
chief in readiness to receive the tears she intended to shed: 
“ and 1 should have been comfortable for life. It^s what IVe 
been looking forward to ever since she was a child. Colonel Ord- 
way, and it^s very hard for her to behave so ungratefully at 
last.^^ 

“ I should think so, ma^am,^^ said the colonel, courteously; 
while the fresh, upspringing tide of tenderness in ClaiVs heart 
subsided once more into chill desolation. 

Well, she might have known her mother better than to ex- 
pect anything else, she thought, with a pang of disappointed 
bitterness. 

There was no lingering fears for what might have become 
of the poor wanderer — no motherly yearnings for the child 
whose future was shrouded in such darkness — simply the selfish 
regrets that the cup of prosperity had been dashed down just 
as its golden bubbles were at her lips — nothing but vain re- 
pining at her own loss of worldly elevation. 

Clara had always to some extent sounded the shallows of 
her mother^s unlovable character, but never had it seemed so 
repulsive and despicable as at this moment. 

She sunk back into her seat again, with a deep, mournful 
sigh. 

“ No,^^ she thought, within herself, “ 1 will not again return, 
to be a marketable commodity in my mother’s hands. Her 
maneuvers have already wrecked my happiness; let her learn 
their consequences by herself. Were I once more in her 
power, 1 should be ten times as lonely as I am now; for there 
is no real companionship between us, and I should only lose 
the power of controlling my own actions. I am better as I am 
now. ” 

She listened with a sarcastic smile curling her lips, as Mrs. 
Rom^ne continued to utter her fretful complaints, from which 
she gathered that her husband had returned to his home in 
New York, where he still intended to prosecute to the utter- 
most his hitherto fruitless search for his lost bricM and that 
he had politely but firmly refused to burden himself for life 
with his amiable marnma-in-law. 

“ So unnatural of him,” whimpered Mrs. Eomayne; “ and 
he so rich, too! Dear Clara ifever would have so allowed my 
feelings to be hurt, I am sure. To be sure, I have no legal 
claim upon him, but, under the circumstances, one would 
have thought he might have had a little consideration. I sup- 
pose he thought he did a very generous thing in paying my 
hotel bill, and settling all the little outstanding accounts that 


146 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


do mount up so enormously in an expensive place like Sara- 
toga. But, of course, no one with the least delicacy of feeling 
could have done less.^^ 

“ To be sure not/^ said Col. Ordway, secretly thinking to 
himself that Mr. Lennox had been a very great fool to treat 
the red-faced widow so generously, and that he (Col. Ordway) 
would have seen his mother-in-law in France before he would 
have paid up her debts so liberally. 

At Albany Mrs. Romayne bustled out again, making as 
much noise and confusion in her departure as she had d^one 
with her entree; and Clara, following closely her old friend 
with the squirrel cage and the parcels, had the satisfaction of 
seeing her mother safely established two cars behind the one 
in which she was to travel. 

“ Oh, youVe goin^ to set with me again, be you?^^ cheerily 
demanded the fat old lady. “ Well, l^’m glad o^ that, for I be 
fleshy, and I know it, and you’re slim built, so we fit in kind 
o’ easy like.” 

“ Shall I help you with your bundles?” asked Clara, who, 
now that she was safe from any immediate chances of recog- 
nition, could venture to be a little more social with her travel- 
ing companion. 

‘‘No, I’m obleeged to you — I’ve got them tucked in some- 
how. Be you goin’ all the way to New York?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ You don’t tell me so!” cried the old lady. “ So be I. 
]’m goin’ down to visit my son’s folks that lives at No. — 
Sixth Avenue. He’s in the picter-frame business, and makes 
money hand over hand. Do you know many folks in New 
York?” 

“ Not any one,” answered Clara, sadly. 

“ Dear bless me! 1 want to know! Well, I’ve never been 
down before; I live in Sandy Hill. Know where Sandy Hill 
is? It’s about forty miles north of Saratoga. I was born and 
brought up there, and I wouldn’t live nowhere else, not if you 
was to give me a house and farm. It’s a dreadful pretty sort 
o’ place, and the folks is neighborly and kind feelin’, and I 
never could see how it was that Joseph — that’s my son, Joseph 
Pinner^ — my name’s Mrs. Dorcas Pinner, relict o’ Hezekiah, 
that was drowned pushin’ logs over the mill-dam, twenty 
years ago, come next fourth o’ February — how it was, I was a- 
sayin’, that Joseph could make up his mind to cut loose from 
Sandy Hill I don’t know. To be sure, he’s makin’ more 
money in New York, but 1 always did say that money wasn’t 
everything. And look at what it costs to live in New York. 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


147 


Milk ten cents a quart, and no more cream on^’t than if it was 
chalk and water! 1 don’t wonder Joseph’s second baby like 
to died teethin’ — I’d up and die if I was kept on such milk 
as that — an’ nothin’ did her no good tilt they brought her up 
to Sandy Hill, and T jest wish you could see that child now! 
Cheese, twenty-two cents — and apples seven dollars a barrel. 
It's up and down wicked, and them great golden pippins and 
red gillyflowers fairly rottin’ on the side-hill orchard ground for 
for lack o’ somebody to come and eat them! Turkeys and 
chickens too — why, 1 never could eat ’em with no appetite 
when they cost such an awful sight! I should feel as though 
I was chewin’ up so many boiled bank-bills. I’ve got a lot o’ 
ready dressed chickens tied up in an old linen pillow-case in 
my trunk,” she added, putting her lips contidentially toward 
Clara’s ear, “ and a lot o’ early apples for the children— poor 
things, they’d ought to grow up in the country, to know what 
livin’ is.” 

Having thus temporarily finished the discussion of her own 
affairs, Mrs. Pinner began to turn her attention to those of 
her neighbor. 

“ So you ain’t a-goin’ a-visitn’ anywhere in New York, scein’ 
you ain’t acquainted nowheres?” 

“ No,” and seeing that the old lady looked expectant, Clara 
answered, with an almost unconscious sigh: “ I am going to 
try to earn my living there.” 

“ I want to know!” ejaculated Mrs. Pinner; “ what be you 
thinkin’ of doin’ now, if it ain’t too great a liberty to ask?” 

“ I am going to try to obtain a situation as lady’s-maid.” 

“ But you can’t go out in the streets arter it, child,” cried 
old Mrs. Pinner. “ You must go somewhere.” 

” I know it,” said Clara, “ and I have been wondering if 
you would kindly let me go homo with you, until I am fortu- 
nate enough to obtain a situation. I have money enough to 
pay my way, but not a sufficiency to go to a hotel, however 
humble.” 

She looked straight into Mrs. Pinner’s kindly face as she 
spoke, trusting blindly in the humane gentleness of her nature. 

“ riear heart alive!” cried the puzzled old lady, “ but how 
on airth do I know who you be?” 

” My name is Mary Smith,” said Clara. 

“ But where do you come from?” 

“ I have been living as lady’s-maid with Miss Borrow, at 
Saratoga,” answered Clara. 

“ And how came you to leave her?” 

“ Through no fault of my own. Oh, Mrs. Pinner!” pleaded 


148 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


poor Clara, with a trembling voice, “ I ask only the privilege 
of a respectable home, which I am ready and willing to pay for, 
until 1 can get something to do. Please, please don’t turn 
coldly from me. Surely you have daughters of your own — 
have pity upon one who is worse than motherless!’’ 

“No!” said the old lady, shaking her head, but neverthe- 
less evidently affected by the earnestness of Clara’s appeal, 
“ 1 never had no darters — my gals was all boys— but I’ve 
always thought 1 should ha’ set dreadful store by one, if the 
Lord had been pleased to send her to me. And I’m the last 
one to look harshly on a poor girl that works for her livin’, 
though Hezekiah — he that’s gone — left me middlin’ well off 
myself; and I’ll see what Amelia says — that’s my son Joseph’s 
wife, and a good-hearted creetur, too — Joe married her in Fort 
Edward, when she sewed for a livin’ ten good years ago. 
Lear me, how time does go, to be sure!” 

Clara’s heart beat exultantly from beneath the great weight 
which had grown more and more oppressive as they neared the 
metropolis of the Western Continent — the dread of being 
landed at dusk in a strange city, with not a friend to turn to, 
or a home to seek! 

“ With only one night’s shelter 1 could begin life anew, with 
fresh courage and resolution,” she thought, and involuntarily 
nestled closer to the portly old lady, who already seemed like 
a friend to her. 

Joseph was at the depot to welcome and receive his mother, 
and a whispered word or two from her made him doff his hat 
clumsily to the tall lady in black, who kept her veil so closely 
over her face. 

“ We hain’t got much of a place,” he said; “ but you’re 
welcome to come home with me and mother, if you please.” 

And Clara gladly accepted this simply worded invitation. 

The establishment on Sixth Avenue was a hot, stuffy little 
room, smelling very strongly of its new red carpet, behind the 
picture-frame store, where Mr. Joseph Pinner drove a thriving 
trade, but “ Amelia,” a buxom young matron, with a round- 
eyed baby in her arms, gave a cordial welcome, and decided 
that “ if Miss Smith didn’t mind sleeping with mother, they 
could accommodate her just as well as not.” 

So that night she slept in a little dark room off the “ par- 
lor,” with good Mrs. Pinner’s snores for company, to divert 
the current of her own restless thoughts. 

Her toilet was soon completed in the morning, and now, for 
the first time she ventured to lay aside the brown wig, and 
discard the odious spectacle-glasses. 


THE BELLE OE SARATOGA. 


149 


“ Dear heart alive!’^ cried old Mrs. Pinner, when she came 
down, thus metamorphosed, to a little room behind the shop, 
where breakfast was prepared; “ why, you don’t look like the 
same girl this mornin’ that you were last night, Mary Smith. 
What on earth possessed you to wear the wig and the glasses?” 

“ My eyes were weak,” faltered Clara, ” and I feared the 
dust and cinders, and — and I have always worn a wig since my 
hair was cut oli*, but it is so long now, that I think I may leave 
it off.” 

” To be sure!” said unsuspecting Mrs. Pinner; “ and then 
little short rings o’ black hair do look dreadful cunnin’ down 
on your neck. 1 declare now I look at you this mornin’, you’re 
a most pretty — ” 

“ Pretty, mother?” burst out Joseph Pinner, who was eat- 
ing his breakfast with a three-year-old child on his knee; 

why, she’s a regular beauty!” 

“Joe, hush!” cried his wife, while Clara laughed and 
blushed, and tried to hide her confusion by putting her face 
down for the baby to pull the little curls. 

“Well,” said Mrs. Pinner, solemnly, “handsome is as 
handsome does, and 1 only hope she’ll get a good place, for 
she’s too young to be idlin’ round a place like New York.” 

“ I brought the morning paper in from the store,’"’ said 
Mrs. Joseph, kindly stroking down the hair that looked so 
raven black beside the baby’s little golden head; “ because I 
thought Miss Smith would like to look over the advertise- 
ments this morning.” 

“ Thank you,” said Clara, hastily; “ you are very kind.” 

And when breakfast was over she sat down to seek in those 
crowded columns, where life and death, joy and sorrow seemed 
to jostle one another, some clew which might lead her through 
the labyrinth of life safely, if not happily. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

THE SISTERS-IH-LAW. 

Plump little Mrs. Joseph Pinner looked over Clara’s shoul- 
der, and commented on the various advertisements, as if she, 
too, were interested in the welfare of the lovely girl whom 
chance had, as it were, thrown in her way. 

“There’s only two ‘ Ladies’-Maids,’ ” she said; “but 
there’s lots of milliners and artificial flower hands wanted. 
Hadn’t you better try one of those?” 

But Clara shook her head. 

“ 1 have been a lady’s-maid, Mrs. Pinner,” she said, “ and 


150 


THE BELLE OP SARATOGA. 


1 know I could succeed, but I might fail as a milliner or a 
flower-maker/^ 

“ Childrei/s nurse, then — look, there are lots of advertise- 
ments. Oh, I wish Joe were a little further ahead in the 
world, cried Mrs. Pinner, picking up her baby as it voyaged 
on all fours too near the treacherous edge of the sideboard, and 
landed it in a place of safety. 

Why?’^ questioned Clara. 

“ I’d keep you myself, to tend the children at ten dollars a 
month — it would be so pleasant to have you here.” 

“ I shall not soon forget your kindness,” said Clara, softly 
pressing Mrs. Joseph’s toil-hardened hand. ‘^1 know you 
would help me if you could, but I must work out my own 
destiny.” 

Well, then, if you must go somewhere,” said Mrs. Pin- 
ner, ‘‘ read the ladies’-maid paragraphs.” 

And Clara obeyed. 

“ Wanted — A person to act in the capacity of maid to a 
lady. Must be competent to dress hair and do fine washing. 
No one under thirty need ap^fly.” 

“ Then 1 mustn’t apply,” sighed Clara, looking into Mrs. 
Pinner’s sympathetic face with a sad smile, “ f or I am not yet 
twenty.” 

“ It’s some old cat, who’s jealous of her son or her hus- 
band,” cried Mrs. Joseph, indignantly. “ I don’t believe you’d 
like the situation, no matter how old you were. Eead the 
other one now — you said there were two.” 

“ Wanted — A lady’s-maid to travel in Europe. Apply 
between ten and two, at room 204, Cosmopolitan Hotel, for 
this day only.” 

“ Oh, dear!” cried Mrs. Pinner, her honest blue eyes light- 
ing up; “ how nice it would be to travel in Europe! Wouldn’t 
you like that. Miss Smith?” 

“ I — don’t know,” faltered Clara, her head drooping, and 
the color slowly ebbing away from her cheek as she remem- 
bered the joyful anticipations of traveling in Europe as Philip 
Lennox’s bride, which had filled all her mind so brief a while 
ago. Was it to be always thus? she demanded, almost de- 
spairingly, of herself. Would every circumstance, no matter 
how trifling, bring its separate sting to goad her to madness? 
Could she never fling the past utterly aside? 

“ Oh, I should!” exclaimed Mrs. Pinner; “ and I am sure 


THE BELLE OF SAKATOGA. 


151 


you would. I think this must be the very place for you, 
Mary. Go to the Cosmopolitan at once — don^t lose a moment, 
or somebody else will be ahead of you, and obtain the situa- 
tion. 

So Clara slowly rose, brushing the jetty rings of her hair 
back from her pale, pure forehead, and, at Mrs. Joseph Pin- 
ner^s special instaiice, wearing a crimson Shetland shawl in- 
stead of the close black cloak, which that cheery little body 
declared would make her look “ old enough for the jealous 
wife who wanted a maid over thirty. 

“ There, said Mrs. Pinner, standing on tiptoe to adjust 
her tall guest^s bonnet-strings; 1 am sure the Europe lady 
will engage you at once.^^ 

And Clara smiled a little more hopefully. The little wom- 
an's sanguine anticipations had something contagious in them; 
and she canght herself wondering how far her slender means 
would go, ill case she should be engaged “ to travel to 
Europe with the unknown lady whose advertisement she 
was now going to answer. 

“ Don’t pull down your veil; it makes you look like a 
nun,” Mrs. Joseph Pinner had said; and Clara obeyed her 
until she reached the corner of the street, and then, blushing 
painfully at every glance that met her own, and feeling like a 
guilty creature, she drew it over her face, as she beckoned to 
a stage whose horses’ heads were turned toward Broadway. 

Mrs. Pinner had directed her where to stop the stage, and, 
following her orders implicitly, Clara pulled the strap when 
she came opposite to the huge block of brown-stone and plate- 
glass which bore the name “ Cosmopolitan Hotel,” in gold 
letters, over its simple-columned porch. 

A black servant answered the peal of the bell almost before 
Clara knew that she touched it. 

“ I have called in answer to an advertisement from Eoom 
204,” she said, timidly; and the good-natured waiter showed 
his glittering white teeth at once. 

“ Yes, miss; please walk up, miss. John,” to another serv- 
ant on the landing, “ show dis lady to Eo. 204.” 

And, ascending the stairs, Clara followed “ John ” along 
the softly carpeted corridor, past innumerable doors, some of 
which were open and some shut, until her guide paused and 
rapped at a door lettered in silver numbers, ‘‘ 204.” 

“ Come in,” was called out from within, and the servant 
threw open the door and withdrew. 

It was a large, handsome private parlor, carpeted with vel- 


152 


THE BELLE OF SAKATOGA. 


vet, and furnished in modern style, but strewn with all the 
evident signs and tokens of preparation for departure. 

Open trunks and boxes stood around in every available 
space; piles of dresses and other garments occupied the chairs 
and sofas; desks, jewel-boxes, handkerchief - cases, music- 
books, and perfume-caskets crowded the mantel and center- 
table, and even lay on the window-ledge; and in the midst of 
this ‘^chaos and old night of packing stood a middle-agd, 
English-looking woman, in a neat calico dress, with a box of 
fine laces in her hand. 

“ What may you be wanting?’^ she asked, as Clara ad- 
vanced into the room. 

‘‘ The advertisement — I thought, perhaps, 1 might get the 
situation, faltered Clara, a little abashed at the cold, critical 
gaze that was upon her. 

Oh, yes; to be sure. Well, walk in; my mistress is in 
the bedroom — that is, if you can get through all these things. 

She pointed to an inner room as she spoke, and facilitated 
Clara^s progresss by moving back one or two chairs hung with 
silken dresses.- 

The other apartment was equally elegant and disorderly, 
and among the pillows of a rosewood Elizabethan bedstead, 
draped from floor to ceiling in a cloud of rose-colored mosquito 
netting, reclined a youngish lady, dressed in an exquisite 
morning wrapper of white linen cambric, trimmed with 
French embroidery and rich Valenciennes lace, while a heavy 
jet chain, wound round and round her neck and terminating 
in a massive cross, was the only visible symbol that she was in 
mourning. 

Her light hair, crepe in the fashionable style, gave a youth- 
ful look to her rather faded, although originally transparent 
complexion; and her pale blue eyes were fixed on the pages of 
a novel she was reading. 

At the sound of a footstep she raised herself on one elbow, 
and parted, with her long, slender hand, the rose-colored lace, 
to scan the countenance of the new-comer. 

‘‘ AYhat is it, Clinton?"^ she demanded, fretfully. 

IFs a young person, ma^am, to answer the advertisement,^^ 
replied the woman in the other room. I told you you would 
be bothered to death about it, until you got it ofi your mind.^^ 

“ Oh, come in/' languidly said the lady, beckoning Clara to 
a chair beside the bedside. “ So you've come to see about 
the situation of lady’s-maid?" 

“ YcvS, ma’am." 

“ What is your name?" 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


153 


“ Mary Smith/ ^ 

The lady calmly surveyed Clara from head to foot, as if she 
had been a bouquet of flowers, a poodle dog, or any other ob- 
ject incapable of feeling embarrassment. 

“ You'^re very pretty, child, she said, at length. 

Clara colored with painful confusion — she scarecly Knew 
how to reply to the strange remark; but the lady saved her 
from the necessity by herself speaking once more. 

‘‘ And youYe young, too. How old do you call yourself?’^ 

“ I am in my seventeenth year,^’ Clara answered. 

“ Oh, dear, dear!” petulantly said the lady; “ seventeen is 
very young!” 

“ 1 hope my age will prove no serious objection, ma’am.” 

“ Have you traveled?” 

“ In this country, ma’am; but I have never crossed the 
sea. ” 

“ What can you do?” languidly questioned the lady. 

“ Everything that is required of me.” 

The lady smiled. 

“ A very good answer. Can you dress hair?” 

“ Yes, ma’am.” 

“ Have you ever lived out before?” 

“ I have.” 

‘‘With whom?” . 

“ With Miss Borrow, of New Orleans.” 

“Why did you leave her?” 

“ Because, ma’am, she required too much of me.” 

“ And how do you know I should not require too much of 
you also?” demanded the lady, keenly watching her. 

“lam willing to run the risk, ma’am,” Clara simply an- 
swered. 

“ How much do you have a month?” 

“ 1 will leave that to you, ma'am. As much, be it more or 
less, as my services are worth. 

“Well, I hardly know,” slowly articulated the lady. 
“ Clinton, come here; what do you think?'’ 

The English-looking woman entered in obedience to her 
mistress’s call,, and fixedly regarded Clara, who sat, alternate- 
ly flushing and growing pale, on the chair beside the nink- 
draped bed. 

“ I like her face,” said Clinton, at length. 

“So do I,” cried the lady. “ I’ve a great mind to engage 
her. Could you be ready to start immediately?” 

“ How soon, ma’am?” 

“ On the steamer that sails at noon to-morrow.” 


154 


THE BELLE OF SAKATOGA. 


Clara pondered a moment. After all, what did it matter? 
What preparations had she to make? And although the idea 
of leaving her native land, and all who dwelt within its limits, 
so abruptly, struck her at first with a strange, regretful pang, 
she cast it from her at once. 

“ Yes, ma’am, I can be ready then.” 

“I didn’t think, when 1 took the tickets,” carelessly ob- 
served the lady, “ but that Clinton would go with me, but 
she’s old, and has a terror of the sea voyage, so 1 was obliged 
to advertise at once. But I really think I shall like you. 
Smith — that was the name, I believe?” 

“ Yes, ma’am — Mary Smith.” 

“ And although your being so young is, of course, an ob- 
jection, still I believe in physiognomy — you know what that 
means, don’t you. Smith?” 

“ Yes, ma’am; the science of reading faces, is it not?” 

“ Yes, exactly so — and I think I shall take you, on the 
chance, at twenty dollars a month, and your expenses. V. ill 
that suit you?” 

“ Certainly, ma’am.” 

And you won’t find me a hard mistress, so long as you 
study to please me. We shall probably remain in Europe a 
couple of years or so, and then be guided by circumstances as 
to whether we return or continue to live abroad.. You may 
join me here this evening at eight o’clock; it will be best for 
you to come to-night, as we start very early to-morrow morn- 
ing, and you may be of some use to Clinton in packing. Now 
go.” 

And she sunk back once more among her pillows, as if the 
exhaustion of this long speech had been quite too much f oi- 
lier. 

“ Yes, ma’am,” said Clara, who had risen and stood near 
the door, “ but — ” 

“ But what? I thought we had settled everything.” 

You have not told me whom to inquire for, when 1 come 
here this evening. ” 

The lady burst into a laugh. 

‘‘ So 1 haven’t, I declare! Clinton, do you hear? — the poor 
child actually does not know my name! I always was the 
most absent-minded creature in the world. Why, Lennox, to 
be sure — Mrs. Wycherly Lennox!” 

“ Mrs. Wycherly Lennox?” 

Clara slowly repeated the syllables of the familiar name, 
unconscious that she was doing so, and her face grew white as 
the wall behind her. 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


155 


“ Why, child, what’s the matter?” exclaimed Mrs. Len- 
nox, springing from the bed in amazement. “ You are going 
to faint! Quick, Clinton! a glass of water, or wine, or some- 
thing!” 

But Clara put back the proffered wine-glass. 

“No — I am not ill; I shall not faint. But — madame — 1 
can not take the situation.” 

“Not take the situation? And pray, why not? I thought 
you were pleased with the idea.” 

“ 1 can not take the situation,” slowly reiterated Clara. 

“But why have you changed your mind so suddenly?” 
persisted Mrs. Lennox, who, in her odd, capricious way, had 
taken quite a fancy to the beautiful girl with the lovely liquid 
eyes and the features like carved alabaster. 

Clara did not answer — she only turned away and left the 
apartment, feeling sick, and strange aod bewildered, as she 
once more passed along the wide, quiet corridor. 

Was it a part of her fate that she never could evade the 
past — that it confronted her when least she expected it — that 
it haunted her ever, like the shadow of her own life? 

Meanwhile Mrs. Wycherly Lennox, among her down pillows, 
and her staid English serving-woman, Clinton, stood staring 
at one another in utter astonishment. 

“ Clinton,” cried Mrs. Lennox, at length, “ the woman 
must be mad!” 

“ 1 can’t account for her behavior in any other way, 
ma’am,” declared Clinton. 

“ It’s a very lucky thing 1 didn’t engage her — very,” cried 
Mrs. Lennox. “ Only suppose I had taken her on board the 
steamer with me, and discovered her insanity when it was too 
late! Oh, Clinton, Clinton, I’ve had a very narrow escape!” 

And Clinton really believed that her lady had. 

Mrs. Pinner and her husband and mother-in-law were eager 
to learn the result of Clara’s expedition, and the poor girl was 
obliged to put them off with the best excuses she could — satis- 
factory enough to these simple people. 

“ It’s a shame,” said Mrs. Joseph, energetically, “ for 
these rich people to put on such whims and fancies. I’ve no 
patience with ’em. If I thought I should behave so when I 
got to be rich, I’d rather stay behind the shop and do my own 
work all my days. And now, Mary, what are you going to 
do?” 

That was the question indeed — the very question which had 
recurred again and again to Clara on her way home — which 
would ^dmit of no evasion, but must be answered. 


156 


TIJE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


What was she ^oing to do.^ 

She must li^e, she must strive to earn an honest livelihood 
— and what place fitter for such an effort than the great city 
ill which she now found herself? 

Yes, fit in some points of view; in others the very worst place 
in which she could have attempted to take her destiny by 
stcrm. A fit place for those who are strong and resolute, and 
who fear not the world^s eye and cruel judgment; but a stern 
ordeal for the timid and shrinking, who distrust their own 
abilities and sicken and grow pale at the first rebuff. 

As Clara sat with folded hands, looking into her own future, 
she was almost tempted to abandon the unequal struggle with 
fate; but there was a latent will and strength in her character 
that forbade any such cowardly compromise. 

“ I will not give up!"'’ she said, between her clinched teeth. 
“ I will try again."" 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

SOMETHI^STG TO DO. 

“ And what are you goiiig to do now, Mary:"" Mrs. Joseph 
Pinner asked, a second time, after Clara had sat in silence for 
some thoughtful moments. “ If there should be no more 
advertisements for ladies’-maids — "" 

‘‘ In that case I must try something else,"" answered Clara, 
with a sad smile. 

“ Dress-making?"" suggested the little matron, dancing her 
baby up and down on her lap. “ I know a nice woman that 
I"m "most sure would take you as an apprentice, and a good 
dress-maker nowadays is almost certain of all the work she can 
do."" 

“ No, Miss Pinner,"" Clara replied, after a moment"s de- 
liberation. From the severe headaches I used to have after 
sewing hard on Miss Borrow’s things, I am convinced that 
work which requires such constant sedentary occupation is 
not suited to my constitution."" 

“But, my dear,"" interposed the old lady, “we can"t 
always choose our own occupation.’" 

“ No,"" said Clara, smiling, “ but we can choose the man- 
ner of our death, and it may as well be from starvation as 
overwork!"" 

“Don’t talk that way, child!” said old Mrs. Pinner, with 
a shudder. 

“ There’s Mary Patterson works on artificial flowers, and 
makes her dollar aiKl a half a day, when times are good,"" 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 157 

hazarded Mrs. Pinner, the younger. “ And John Dayton^s 
widow, she keeps herself above want by book-folding.'^^ 

‘‘ But I doii^’t understand anything of either occupations,- 
sighed Clara. 

“ You might learn very easily. Pll go round to Mary^s 
with you, this very evening, if you say so.'’^ 

‘‘ 1 can try, at all events, said Clara, and accordingly, 
when the babies were tucked up in bed that evening, and left 
in their grandmother^s charge, Mrs. Pinner and her young 
friend stole quietly out in the twilight, and went to a respecta- 
ble sort of tenement house, where Miss Mary Patterson, arti- 
ficial fiower-maker, resided in the second story back room. 

Miss Patterson, a tall, grim woman, who looked as if her 
skin had been tightly stretched over a set of bones, with no 
cushiony developments in the way of fiesh or muscle, was busy 
cutting a lot of little heart-shaped patterns out of what looked 
like a sheet of dark-blue paper, or stiffened cloth. 

“Oh!’^ she said, scratching her sharp chin with the point of 
her scissors, as she listened to Mrs. Pinner^s account of the 
errand on which they had come, “ wants to make artificials, 
does she? Ever made any?’^ 

-Clara answered that she had not. 

“Oh! bless you, there^s not the shadow of a chance for 
you, then. There^’s lots o^ good hands that I know of, wait- 
ing for an opening to slip in, and a new beginner ought to 
think herself lucky if she is allowed to work for nothing, with 
the chance of learniiig the business. It’s overcrowded now, 
artificials is!’^ 

Mrs. Pinner looked aghast. 

“ You are sure there is no opportunity for my friend to — ” 

“ Downright sure,” curtly answered Miss Patterson. “ And 
any ways, 1 wouldn’t advise a girl to try that, as long as there’s 
any’ other trade to be had — it’s dreadful unhealthy work.” 

“ Isn’t it too bad?” cried Mrs. Pinner, as they once more 
emerged into the street. “ But never mind, Mary — we’ll go 
round to Mrs. Dayton.” 

The Widow Dayton, keeping house for herself in one room, 
two or three blocks away, was a meek-faced, apple-dumpling- 
shaped woman, who was “ very glad ” to see them, and “ very 
sorry ” that there was no vacancy in the establishment where 
she folded books. And so Clara and Mrs. Pinner found 
themselves once more repulsed. 

“ What are you thinking of, Mary?” Mrs. Pinner asked, 
as they walked silently along the gas-lighted streets toward 
the little picture-frame shop. 


158 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


“ All these men that pass us, in such crowds — that I see 
going by your house in the morning — they have work to do. 
They find no difficulty in earning their daily bread, if only 
they are willing to work. Now, how do they get work?’^ 

“ Oh, men — that’s a ditferent affair,” said Mrs. Pinner, 
shrugging her shoulders. “ Men can always find something 
to do.” 

“ But wh3>?” persisted Clara, in a voice of eager despair. 
“ Why does not the world give a woman an equal chance?” 

“ It never does, you know. ” 

“ But it should!” cried Clara. It should afford them bet- 
ter opportunities, if there is any difference made; because 
women are weak and helpless, and bound down to so many 
more meaningless conventionalities! Oh, Mrs. Pinner, the 
world is all wrong in this matter!” 

“ And you’re not the first person that has thought so, my 
dear, I suspect,” said Mrs. Pinner, laughing. “ But it’s just 
as it is, and neither you nor I can change it. Let’s go in 
through the shop. Joe’s there alone. ” 

But Mr. Joseph Pinner was not there alone — another man 
stood where he was half-concealed by the open door — a hand- 
some, black-whiskered man, with dark eyes and rather a 
hooked nose, who surveyed both the women keenly as they 
entered. 

No luck again, Joe,” said his wife; “ and Mary Smith—” 

She stopped short as she caught sight of the stranger, and 
colored. 

“No harm done, my dear,” said her husband, laughing; 
“ it’s only Mr. Geoffrey come to give me the order for regild- 
ing the Tonnington Theater next week.” 

He spoke with the gleeful exultation of one who thinks he 
has secured, pecuniarily speaking, “ a good thing of it,” and 
Mr.' Geoffrey touched his hat courteously as the two women 
disappeared. 

“ ITat’s the great theater-manager,” said Mrs. Pinner, in 
an awed tone of voice, as she closed the door of the little back 
sitting-room and began to untie her bonnet-strings. “ Isn’t 
he handsome?” 

“ I think he has a very disagreeable face,” said Clara, care- 
lessly. 

It was quite late when JoseiJi Pinner, having put the shut- 
ters up and closed his establishment for the night, joined the 
other members of his family in the back room. 

“ So you haven’t heard of anything to do yet, Miss Smith?” 


THE BELLE OF SAKATOGA. 


159 


he said, sitting down by his Wiles’s work-table and beginning 
to twist her needle-case. 

“No, sir,^^ answered Clara, looking up from a rent in the 
baby^’s dress which she was mending, her thoughts far away 
the while. 

“ Well, Ihave.^^ 

“ What is it, Joe?’^ cried his wife; and Clara glanced eager- 
ly up again. 

“Why, Geoffrey was asking what you meant, Amelia, by 
no luck — you remember what you said before you knew he was 
in the store — and so 1 explained the matter, and he said at 
once that they needed a young lady in his company to act 
‘ Cleopatra ^ in the new pantomime— nothing on earth to do 
but be dressed up, sit still in a gilt-paper chariot, with a 
bushel-basket full of real flowers rained down on her, and look 
pretty, and five dollars a night if you gave satisfaction. And 
he said — now don^'t blush. Miss Smith — that you were so very 
pretty that he entertained no doubt of your being able to give 
satisfaction, and with a fancy name in the show-bills— Orinthia 
Orient, or Cecil Dare, or some such romantic string of sylla- 
bles — you’d draw full houses the whole season. What do you 
say to that, eh?” 

Clara had suspended her needle in midair, and was listen- 
ing intently, with the deep scarlet burning on her cheek. 
With Joseph Pinner’s unconsciously suggestive words there 
rose up before her mind’s eye the blazing foot-lights of her 
earlier years — the sickly smell of escaping gas, stale paint and 
orange-peel; the coarse jests of the actors, and the tawdry 
dresses and cosmetic-smeared faces of those that surrounded 
her. She had abhorred her life then, child as she was, now 
that she had grown to woman’s estate, she hated its very 
memory. 

“Never!” she ejaculated, with an emphasis that made 
honest Joseph start. “ I would rather beg my bread from 
door to door!” 

“ And 1 think you’re quite right, my dear,” said old Mrs. 
Pinner, who had wakened from her nap as her son entered 
from the shop. 

“ But why not?” urged Joseph. “ What harm is there in 
looking pretty on a stage, with ‘ transformation leaves ’ wav- 
ing back of you, and rose-colored lights burning to give you a 
fairies’ bower sort of look!” 

“ What harm?” repeated Clara, slowly. “ Mr. Pinner, let 
me put the question to you in a different way. Suppose baby 


160 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA^ 


Milly here was grown up. and, like m^^self, fatherless and 
motherless in a strange city — 

God forbid!’^ interrupted Joseph, instinctively laying his 
hand on the little dimpled arm that rested outside the crib 
quilt, close to Mrs. Pinnei’s knee. 

“ But we will suppose it, just for argument’s sake,^’ per- 
sisted Clara. “ Suppose Milly to be an orphan, and alone, 
and suppose such an otfer to be made to her, would you wish 
her to accept it?’’ 

“ No!” ejaculated Pinner, bringing his closed hand down 
upon the table. “By Jove! you’re right about it. Miss 
Smith.” 

“ /o-seph!” checked the old lady, to whom her son’s ex- 
pletive was a secondary form of profanity. 

But it seems almost a pity, too,” sighed little Mrs. Pin- 
ner. ‘‘ Five dollars a night — and so little to do! Well, Mary, 
my dear, you must be your own judge.” 

And she resumed her work with an oracular shake of the 
head. 

“ Oh, 1 dare say Miss Smith will find something to do if she 
will only have a little patience,” said Joseph. 

And Clara Roniayne had “ a little patience,” and a great 
deal of patience, and still the ‘‘ something to do ” seemed as 
far off as ever. 

She industriously studied the daily advertisements, answer- 
ing all such as she deemed at all suited to her particular case; 
but there was always some objection, some unconquerable ob- 
stacle to turn her freshly springing hopes into despair. 

She grew pale and wearied out; her nights were restless, 
and her sleep unrefreshing, and in addition to all, the poor 
little hoard, patiently husbanded and carefully eked out with 
many small economies and piteous shifts and turnings, had 
given out at last. 

She was quite pennilesc now. 

“ Don’t mind it, my dear,” said Mrs. Joseph Pinner to her, 
when, with a burst of mortified tears, poor Clara confided to 
her the state of her miserable little finances. ‘‘ You’re wel- 
come to stay here until something better turns up. I’m sure 
no one could grudge you your bit and your sup, and the roof 
that is over your head, and you’re so useful with the children, 
and about the house at odd spells, that I’m sure I don’t know 
how 1 shall ever manage to get along without you.” 

But in spite of these delicately kind and considerate words, 
Clara could not but know that Mr. and Mrs. Pinner were 
struggling young people with a narrow income and wide ex- 


THE BELLE OF SAKATOGA. 161 

penses, and that every half-peck of potatoes and bag of flour 
was carefully meted out and calculated on. 

Nor was she unconscious of the fact that she was occupiyng 
the spare room in which they could otherwise ‘‘ board the 
store-clerk, thereby adding a few dollars weekly to their small 
exchequer. 

“ 1 7mist do something to cut this Gordian knot of circum- 
stance/^ thought Clara, one morning, as she desperately took 
up the newspaper, once more to consult its columns. “ I 
can at least go out as a chamber-maid, if nothing else remains; 
the daughter of a strolling fortune-teller, and a retired circus- 
rider ought not to have any such insurmountable scruples of 
delicacy. 

For in the bitterness of her adversity Clara had learned 
even to sneer at herself. 

As she leaned her head against the window-sill, looking ab- 
stractedly out into the swarming thoroughfare below, a young 
lady tripped along on the opposite pavement, a young lady 
about Clara^s age and height, whom Mrs. Pinner had told her 
was “ visiting governess in a number of families further up- 
town. 

“ I might be a governess, she thought, sadly. I could 
not earn a great deal of money, for I have but few accomplish- 
ments, and no very substantial foundation to build upon, but 
there may be families where there are little children who need 
care and companionship more than actual text-book instruc- 
tion. Yesterday there was a quarter of a column of ‘ Govern- 
esses Wanted,^ but I never noticed them, because I had per- 
suaded myself that teaching was incompatible with my 
miserably neglected education. How foolish it was of me; 

! but I am wiser now.^^ 

j In Clara’s case, however, wisdom had very nearly come too 
late, for in this morning’s paper there was but one “ Wanted, 
a Governess.” Nevertheless, this one did not read so very 
unfavorably : 

Wanted — A Governess, to go out into the country and 
take charge of the education of a young girl. Youth and 
amiability more an object than elaborate accomplishments. 
Apply to Mrs. C. A., No. — Fifth Avenue.” 

Clara sat with the paper in her lap for a moment or two 
thinking. 

“ It is worth the trial,” she muttered to herself. “ At all 
events, I am young, and I think I could be as amiable as the 
c 


162 


THE BELLE OF SABATOGA. 


average of women if 1 had a tolerably fair chance given me. 
Yes^I will try.^^ 

And cutting the advertisement out, by way of making sure 
of the number denoted, Clara put on her shabby cloak and 
bonnet and went out into the fresh autumn sunlight, once 
more to test her fate. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

MR. ST. SEVERN, OF SEVERN TOWERS. 

It was a glorious morning in early October, the sky over- 
head blue and dazzling, and the fresh, bracing air full of in- 
vigorating oxygen, as Clara Romayne walked along the pave- 
ment, her own nature seeming to imbibe new courage and 
hope from the bright aspect of the external world around her. 

‘‘ I never put much faith in presentiments,^’ she thought; 
“ but to-day it seems to me that I am going to succeed. Can 
it be possible that ‘ coming events cast their shadows before ’ 
over the current of the world? If I should fail in this last 
effort — but no, I can not bear to think of it. I shall not fail; 
something within me predicts the very reverse of failure.” 

With these bright aspirations in her mind she ascended the 
flight of massive stone steps in front of the elegant house on 
Fifth Avenue, whence the advertisement had emanated, and 
rang the door-bell. 

The man-servant who answered it, and listened courteously 
to her message, showed her into a pretty little boudoir at the 
back of the hall, and left her, to summon his mistress. 

It was a handsome room, furnished in deep violet velvet to 
the very carpet on the floor, and the haiigings to the bay-win- 
dow, where a delicate wire stand was almost concealed by the 
trailing vines which grew from a porcelain basket in its midst, 
and wreathed themselves in and out among the invisible wires, 
with small scarlet bells drooping from the luxuriance of fol- 
iage. 

A marble statuette of a child carrying shells stood on the 
center-table, and a picture of Heroclias’s daughter, bearing 
the ghastly head of John the Baptist on a charger, hung over 
the mantel in a frame of dark wood, outlined with gold, while 
a harp occupied the corner, its gilded wires glimmering faintly 
through the shady, fragrant gloom of the apartment, and low, 
velvet-covered chairs and coaches stood around, inviting re- 
pose. 

As Clara stood looking, with a sort of mingled dread and in- 
terest, at the pictured representation of the beautiful Judean 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


163 


girl, whose face of radiant bloom contrasted so vividly with 
the ashen hue of the gory face beneath, and wondering what 
artist had chosen so strange a subject for his brush, the door 
behind her swung softly open, and a tall lady, dressed in 
black, entered the apartment. 

All that Clara could judge of her at the first glance was that 
she was pale and sweet-looking, with a willowy sort of grace 
in her movements, and large, soft hazel eyes. 

“ Sit down,^^ she said, kindly, beckoning Clara to a seat on 
the low sofa beside her, into which a little white poodle dog, 
who had followed her into the room, had already curled up. 

“Never mind Fan; she is quite harmless. You are the 
young lady who has called to answer my advertisement for a 
governess?^^ 

“ Yes, madame,^^ answered Clara, timidly. 

“ I am Mrs. Charles Armour, went on the lady, “and 
the child for whom a governesses services are need is my niece, 
the daughter of my only sister. 

Clara was silent, and the lady resumed, after a moment^s 
pause, during which she was apparently studying the pale, 
oval face of the young girl who sat opposite to her. 

“ You seem very young, my dear."’"’ 

“ I am sixteen and four months, madame. 

“ My Florine herself is thirteen. That is the child^s name 
— Florine St. Severn. You will be two children together. 

Clara blushed and smiled as the lady laughed softly. 

“ I am not a child, inadame,^'’ she said, “ in anything but 
years. 

“ Well, that is no insuperable objection,^^ said Mrs. Ar- 
mour. “ Father a recommendation, on the contrary. Flor- 
ine is willful and rebellious, and we are in hopes that some one 
nearer her own age than the staid old ladies we have hitherto 
employed would be able to exert a more favorable infiuenoe 
over her wayward moods. Are you fond of children?^^ 

“ Very fond, madame.^’ 

“ And do you think you can always retain command of your 
temper, no matter how trying Florine may be?^^ 

“ My temper has been severely tried, madame, before now. 
Yes, 1 think I can.^^ 

“ W^hat is your name?’^ asked Mrs. Armour. 

“ Mary Smith. 

“Father a common patronymic. .Florine has had more 
than one Miss Smith in her list of governesses. Where did 
you live last?’’ 

“ I have never been a governess, madame; but I am sure/’ 


164 


THE BELLE OF SAEATOGA. 


added Clara, hastily, as she saw something like doubt crossing 
Mrs. Armour’s serene face, “ that 1 could give satisfaction to 
a child of that age, particularly if, as the advertisement states, 
no very elaborate accomplishments are required. 1 can play 
and sing, and speak a little French; but beyond that I have 
no accomplishments.’’ 

“ Are you willing to go directly into the country?” 

“ 1 should like it of all things, madame; 1 am so tired of 
New York.” 

The earnestness with which Clara spoke brought a faint 
smile into Mrs. Armour’s face. 

” I quite agree with you, my dear child,” she said, pleas- 
antly; “ but you will find it very dull at Severn’s Tower. It 
is situated on a little island belonging to my brother, in the 
Hudson River, entirely isolated from the land — an old castle- 
like building, of gray stone, that has belonged to the St. 
Severn family since before the Revolution. ” 

‘‘ I am sure I should like that very much,” said Clara, with 
kindling eyes. 

And,” resumed the lady, “ when I spoke of the possible 
trials to your temper I was not alluding to Florine alone, 
although she is wayward and capricious, for any one could 
gain her affections would find her guidance a very easy task. 
My mother resides at Severn’s Tower, also, and is a difficult 
person to get along with, on more accounts than one.” 

‘‘ I am willing to run the risk, madame,” Clara replied. 

Your references you have, of course, with you?” resumed 
Mrs. Armour. 

“ 1 have no references, ma’am.” 

“ No references?” Mrs. Armour spoke in a tone of extreme 
surprise, tempered with a kind of distrust which Clara was 
quick to perceive. “ In that case, of course, all negotiations 
between us would come to an end.” 

But Clara caught wildly at her dress, as she was turning 
away, crying out in a half-stifled wail of piteous entreaty: 

“ Oh, madame! do not turn from me thus until you have 
heard me. Do not cast another obstacle in the path of one 
who is utterly alone and friendless in the world; but pray, 
pray, for the sake of Him who is the Father of us all, give me 
one trial! I will be true and faithful to you, indeed, indeed 
I will. 1 will study your wishes, your desires, and perform 
the duties of my position as I would answer for it one day at 
the bar of God. But, oh! if you send me away I shall die. I 
have tried to get something to do, I have been discouraged by 
so many bitter failures, and if you, too, throw me aside^ I 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


1G5 


shall have no hope or strength left. You are a woman — a 
kind-hearted woman, or 1 have not read your face aright; oh, 
for mercy’s sake, remember that 1, too, am a woman, and 
alone in the cruel, relentless world.” 

Her voice died away into a sobbing murmur, and a burst of 
passionate tears well seconded her appeal. 

“ My poor girl,” said Mrs. Armour, stroking back the silky 
tendrils of hair which had fallen over Clara’s flushed forehead, 
‘^1 hardly know what to say to you. My own heart would 
counsel me to engage you, regardless of all worldly precau- 
tions, for your face is that of an innocent child, and there is 
truth and sincerity in your manner. But, alas! it is not 
always best to follow the dictates of the heart in such affairs 
as this.” 

She stood a moment looking at Clara, who still drooped, 
sobbing, over the velvet-covered arm of the sofa. Little Fan, 
the dog, crept close to her, wagging its tail and licking her 
cold, motionless hand, as if it fain would comfort her in its 
canine fashion. 

“ Fan is a better judge of character than I am,” said Mrs. 
Armour, with a smile, as she noticed the maneuver of her 
four-footed pet. “Stop crying, child. I will see what Mr. 
St. Severn says, if he has not already gone out.” 

She left the room, and after a lapse of a few minutes the 
man-servant, whom she had before seen, entered. 

“ My mistress wishes Miss Smith to wait in the parlor until 
my master comes down. This way, please.” 

The room into which she was conducted was large and splen- 
did — a continuous suite divided from one another by heavy 
satin draperies, fringed with gold, through which, at equal 
intervals she could catch the white gleam of marble columns 
which apparently served instead of door-ways or other par- 
titions — and as Clara entered them a curious sensation stole 
over her, as peculiar as it was incomprehensible — the strange 
consciousness that we all feel at some period or another of our 
journey through life, of having, in some ante-natal existence 
lived the same things and been surrounded by the same acces- 
sories. 

Clara Eomayne’s life had been such a changing succession 
of incidents — she had passed from scene to scene with such be- 
wildering rapidity that her memory of the earlier scenes of her 
existence was necessarily vague and indistinct; yet somewhere 
she knew she had seen this superb suite of rooms, with its 
blue satin decorations, the glitter of its frescoed ceiling, and 
the quivering lines of sunshine on the carpet. The very 


166 


THE BELLE OF SAKATOGA. 


breath of the odorous flower baskets that stood on gilded 
brackets around — the distant song of canaries in the room be- 
yond— were strangely familiar to her senses. She pressed her 
hand to her forehead, looking vaguely around, as if trying to 
recall some lost link in this wondrous chain of association. 

'‘Have I dreamed all this?^^ she thought; “or is it the 
shadowy recollection of a life lived long ago that comes back 
to me, to vanish as suddenly as it has risen up? Where have 
I seen these fluted columns and gold-looped draperies before? 
The deep blue of the carpet, like a midsummer sky lying low 
instead of above me — the pictured fairies and elves that peep 
at me from the painted acanthus leaves on the ceiling? Oh, 
merciful Father! is this one of the earthly visions that portend 
the departure of reason? And am I going mad?’^ 

But just as this strange spell reached its most painful height 
an approaching footstep dissolved it, and Clara seemed to 
rouse herself from a sort of dream, to behold a tall, noble- 
looking man, of five-or six-and-thirty years of age, whose sin- 
gularly handsome face was curiously traversed by deep and 
premature wrinkles, while his dark eyes, deep-set and brill- 
iant, under jet-black eyebrows, seemed to shine and glow with 
suppressed light. His hair, very black, was sprinkled here 
and there by white threads, and the grace that would have 
characterized his gait and movements was marred by a slight, 
but very perceptible stoop. Mrs. Armour was with him, and 
advanced to the young girl’s side with an encouraging smile 
on her face. 

“ This is my brother-in-law, Mr. St. Severn,” she said, 
“ and Florine’s father. Eustace, let me introduce you to 
Miss Mary Smith — the young lady,” she added, laughingly, 
“ with a pretty face and no references.” 

As Clara inclined her head, blushing like a crimson flower, 
her large black eyes scarcely visible beneath their veil of long, 
thick lashes, Mr. St. Severn looked keenly at her with the 
unwavering eye of one well accustomed to study character. 

“ How d^oes it happen, my child,” he asked^ gently, “ that 
you are without friends or references?” 

“ Is it so strange a case, sir?” falteringly asked Clara. “ I 
am alone and unfriended through circumstances which it 
would hardly interest you to reveal, and which render it abso- 
lutely necessary for me to earn my daily bread in one way or 
another. If you will engage me, I will do my very best to 
prove myself worthy of your confidence — if you send me away, 
I can hardly tell what is to become of me.” 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. IG? 

“ Look me in the face, Miss Smith/^ said Mr. St. Severn, 
gravely, but not unkindly. 

Clara raised her dark, liquid eyes, and looked steadily in his 
face, with a trusting, innocent gaze that carried more with it 
than a thousand well-worded arguments. 

No adventuress could thus have met his piercing gaze, and 
Mr. St. Severn was satisfied. 

1 will, at least, give you a trial, my child, he said, after 
a momentary pause, “ as Mrs. Armour thinks you will prove 
a good companion for my little Florine. Can you tell me 
what you would regard as a fit compensation for the duties of 
your place?^^ 

“ 1 do not know, sir,^^ Clara answered, frankly. “ I would 
rather leave it to you to set the terms of our engagements^ 

“ I gave my last governess five hundred dollars a year; will 
that be enough to suit youP^^ 

“ Enough! Oh, sir, it is a most liberal offer! I never 
dreamed of asking for so much, because I am unaccomplished 
and — 

“You are proving to me your inexperience now,^^ laughed 
Mr. St Severn; “ an old hand at the business could never 
express herself in that unworldly manner. Five hundred 
dollars, then, be it. Can you be ready to accompany my sis- 
ter to Severn Sg Tower on the day after to-morrow? Florine is 
running riot now, uncontrolled by nothing on earth but her 
own will, and the sooner she is put under a little wholesome 
discipline the better. 

“ I can be ready, sir.^’ 

Mr. St Severn expressed his satisfaction, and left the room 
with a slight bow of adieu, but as Clara was turning toward 
the door, Mrs. Armour stopped her. 

“ My dear,^'’ she said, hesitatingly, “ if I am going to say 
I a very impertinent thing, you must pardon it, in considera- 
tion of my motives; but from what you tell me, 1 conclude 
that you are merely, if not quite, without means. 

“ I have thirty-seven cents left in my purse, ma^am,^^ said 
Clara, smiling sadly, “ and 1 owe thirteen dollars to the kind 
people who have given me food and shelter in my unprotected 
loneliness. But in time I hope to be able to repay them from 
the very generous allowance spoken of by Mr. St. Severn. 

“I am sure,^’ said Mrs. Armour, still hesitating, “ that if 
my brother were aware of your circumstances he would wdsh 
me to advance you some part of the first yearns salary to dis- 
charge any outstanding obligations, as well as to make the 
necessary preparations for an absence which will j)robably be 


168 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


of some length. Kemember, there are no dry-goods stores 
near Severn^s Tower/^ she added, pleasantly, as she placed a 
little roll of bills in Clara’s unresisting hand. 

“ Oh, madame,” faltered the poor girl, ‘‘ how can I thank 
you sufficiently for this kind proof of your confidence?” 

“ Take it, my dear, and be as expeditious as you can,” said 
Mrs. Armour, and she dismissed Clara from her presence, 
quite conscious that she had done what the world would con- 
sider a very injudicious thing, and richly deserved to be swin- 
dled for her blind trust in one who was an utter stranger to 
her. 

“ But I really couldn’t help it,” thought the kind Mrs. 
Armour. ‘‘ The girl has such melting eyes, and such a lovely 
face, I am sure Florine can not help liking her, although, un- 
fortunately, mamma is pretty sure to conceive an antipathy to 
her, for the simple reason that she is very young and as beau- 
tiful as an houri. It’s a very good thing that Guy doesn’t re- 
turn from Switzerland this year. I am sure I should fall in 
love with that pretty creature were I a man, governess or no 
governess; and mamma would never hear of Guy’s marrying 
any woman whose family pedigree was not of the most shin- 
ing grade. ” 

While these speculative thoughts were passing through Mrs. 
Armour’s mind, Clara was speeding swiftly home, with eyes 
sparkling with inward happiness and cheeks tinted with the 
brightest and most vivid of roses. 

Mrs. Joseph Pinner, sitting alone at her work, was surprised 
by the sudden rustle of bank bills into her lap, and looking 
up, saw Clara’s radiant face. 

“ There’s what I owe you, Amelia,” said Clara, “ as far as 
money can repay it; but I shall always remain in debt for your 
kindness. ” 

“ Dear me!” exclaimed the astonished little housekeeper. 
“ Then you have actually got a situation?” 

“ Yes — and this is part payment in advance. I am going 
to a lovely island on the Hudson io take charge of a little girl 
of thirteen, and I shall have five hundred dollars a year. Oh, 
Amelia, 1 am so happy!” 

“ Bless my soul! And when do you go?” questioned Mrs. 
Pinner, scarcely knowing whether to be glad or sorry. 

“ The day after to-morrow. And that reminds me, Amelia, 
will you go out with me this afternoon? I have so many 
things to buy, and such a lot of sewing to do! For, you 
know, I have nothing fit to wear to a strange place.” 

“ Never mind, dear. I’ll help you with ’em,” said Mrs. 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


169 


Pinner, entering at once into the spirit of the thing; “ and I 
know an excellent seamstress that will cut and fit for you, and 
be glad to get the work."’^ 

And when Clara Romayne rejoined Mrs. Armour at the 
stately mansion on Fifth Avenue, whose dream-like chain of 
association seemed entirely to have passed away now as sud- 
denly and unaccountably as they had arisen, she brought with 
her, in a neat little black trunk, a wardrobe which, though 
very plain and inexpensive, was yet perfectly suited to her 
purse and position. 

Mrs. Armour welcomed her most kindly. To tell the truth, 
one or t^o not-to-be-banished doubts as to the probability of 
ever again seeing her beautiful protegee had disturbed her 
mind not a little since their last interview. 

“ It wouldiiT have been the fifty dollars so niuch,^^ she 
thought, ‘‘ although no one wants to throw away fifty dollars 
on an unworthy object; but if she hadn’t come back, I do 
think I never should have trusted any one again.” 

But she was fortunately reassured as to her own skill in 
reading the book of human nature aright, and on the same 
evening they set forth for Severn’s Tower, which Mrs. Ar- 
mour told Clara, in answer to her question, they should reach 
at or about midnight, if nothing occurred to delay the train. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

SEVERN’S TOWER. 

The dark-violet concave of the October firmament was all 
[ glittering with stars, the white beauty of whose far-ofi radiance 
contrasted with the yellow flaring light of the little railroad 
station under the overhanging rocks, when the midnight train, 
rushing on its way like a nameless monster of the night, left 
Mrs. Armour and her young companion standing half asleep 
on the platform, with Wyman, the man-servant, who was their 
escort, coming up with both arms full of bags, shawls, and 
bundles. 

“ Is the boat down at the dock, Wyman?” drowsily inquired 
Mrs. Armour. Dear me, 1 hadn’t any idea we were so near 
Severndale. It can’t be midnight, can it?” 

“ Yes, ma’am; five minutes past. The depot clock has just 
struck, ma’am,” said Wyman, “ and the boat is waiting. 

I You are expected.” 

” Then we may as well go down at once. Are you ready, 
my dear? Where are you?” 


170 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


For Clara had walked to the end of the board platform, and 
was gazing off on the beautiful landscape. 

Below them lay the broad, smooth river, reflecting the stars 
overhead as completely as if its steel-dark surface had been 
sprinkled with a rain of silver, while the opposite shores would 
have been scarcely discernible had it not been for the few 
twinkling lights along its wooded declivities. About half- 
way in the stream a group of foliage seemed to rise from the 
water, betokening the presence of Severn^s Island, and Clara^s 
keen sight could just trace the turreted outline of the Tower, 
rising, gray and dark, against the shore beyond. 

“I am quite ready, ma^am,’’ she answered, following Mrs. 
Armour and the man down a sloping road which led them to 
a long, low wooden dock, or pier, alongside of which lay a 
good-sized row-boat, which they were enabled to reach by 
means of narrow wooden steps. No sooner were they snugly 
established, baggage and all, in this little craft than the man 
with the oars, who had respectfully touched his hat to the 
ladies, pulled off, and they shot with a swift, gliding motion 
over the surface of the quiet river. 

To Clara Eomayne it was simply delightful. The glitter of 
the stars overhead, the freshness of the night air over the 
river, and the soft ripple of the water round the prow of their 
boat, added to the exhilarating motion, gave her a sensation 
of glad light-heartednevss, as new as it was agreeable. 

“ Are they all well at the Tower, Joseph drowsily asked 
Mrs. Armour, as she drew the crimson cashmere shawl closer 
round her shoulders. 

“ Quite well, ma^am, thank you.^^ 

“ I suppose they looked for us to-night?^^ 

‘‘ Yes, ma’am. Mrs. Vavasor got the master’s telegram 
yesterday morning."'’ 

And then a silence followed, as the boat shot swiftly on, the 
strokes of the oars seeming to splinter the reflected stars on 
the surface of the water into shattered sparkles which closed 
over their track like a silver path, while the octagonal gray 
tower on the little island grew larger and larger, in proportion 
to their nearer approach. 

Suddenly Mrs. Armour sat up straight and looked earnest- 
ly ahead of her. 

“ Surely, Joseph, there is another boat coming from the 
island. That light is not a mere fishing-boat — it comes steadily 
toward us.” 

“ Yes, ma’am,” Joseph answered; “ it may be some of the 
servants coming over on an errand. ” 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


171 


“ At this tiDie of night 

“Well, ma’am,^^ the man answered, shrugging his shoul- 
ders, “ you know the old madarne is peculiar, and if she takes 
a fancy to have a thing done, that thing has got to be done, 
no matter what the time or place may be.^^ 

“ Perhaps She is uneasy because we are delayed, and has 
sent to ascertain the reason,^'’ conjectured Mrs. Armour. 

“The train was on time, ma’am, said Joseph, “and I 
don’t think she expected us any earlier.” 

“We can ask, as they pass us,” said Mrs. Armour. 

But instead of keeping on its direct course, which would 
have brought the two little craft nearly alongside of each 
other, the mysterious boat suddenly took another direction, as 
it neared, and Joseph’s stentorian hail was quite unheeded. 

“ They’re not very polite, any way,” said the chagrined 
oarsman. “ I think it’s the boat from the hotel, ma’am.” 

“ But what is it doing at Severn’s Tower — with one woman 
for the only passenger?” 

“ May be it’s one of the housekeeper’s friends,” hazarded 
J oseph. 

As Clara gazed earnestly at the phantom-like boat the lan- 
tern that it carried was suddenly turned around, so that the 
light reflected for an instant full into the face of the solitary 
passenger. It was but for one second, the lantern being dark- 
ened again almost instantaneously, but in that single second 
of time Clara Komayne saw a sight which seemed to check the 
current of her blood. 

By the red glare of the lantern she had recognized the 
features of her mother! 

She rose up in the boat, and then sat down again, growing 
deathly pale in the starlight, while a low cry broke involun- 
tarily from her lips. - 

“ My dear,” cried Mrs. Armour, “ my dear, sit still, unless 
you want to tip the boat over. What are you frightened at? 
There isn’t the least danger.” 

Clara murmured some incoherent words which might have 
been construed into an apology, and was silent; indeed, she 
could not have spoken more. 

What did it mean? 

What singular impulse had guided her mother to that 
lonely spot, the m6st unlikely of all the world to be haunted 
by her presence? 

Had she, by some means leyond Clara’s comprehension, 
tracked her movements, and come here to be beforehand with 
her? 


' THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 

This was scarcely possible, for in such a case she would 
surely have waited to claim possession of her daughter. 

Clara shuddered as she thought of the possibility of such a 
thing; or it may have been that, overwearied by her journey, 
she had fallen into a brief, unquiet slumber, and at the mo- 
ment of waking her dreams had shaped the surrounding reali- 
ties to their own warped form. 

Yet, earnestly as she strove to calm herself with these reit- 
erated assurances, they were totally unsatisfactory. 

She knew very well that she had not been dreaming — that 
she was at the moment in full possession of all her senses. 
How, then, was the strange apparition to be accounted for 
except on the grounds of an optical delusion? 

“ I have scarcely been myself for the last few days,^^ men- 
tally reasoned Clara, remembering the singular sensation that 
had come over her on entering the drawing-rooms of the St. 
Severn mansion, on Fifth Avenue. “ It seems as if 1 had 
been walking beneath the influence of some spell, or vision, 
and I must learn to put no more confidence in these deceptive 
illusions. Some one whose face is like my mother’s, seen by 
the glare of a lantern, which of itself is enough to destroy all 
serious ideas of resemblance, has happened to pass me, while 
my mind is unusually excited by the novelty of the scenes sur- 
rounding me, and my preternaturally active fancy at once 
seizes upon the slender thread of associations, and weaves all 
manner of deceitful suppositions around it. These last few 
weeks of anxiety and depression have made me foolishly fanci- 
ful, and the sooner I check all such tendencies the better.” 

And so Clara tried to shake off the impression that had 
taken so strong a hold of her imagination. 

“ For it is simply impossible,” she said to herself, resolutely. 
While she was settling this troublesome question in her mind, 
the little boat had been speeding on its midnight way, and now 
shot up alongside of a small landing-place, where a flight of 
broad stone steps led up, under a picturesquely shaped boat- 
house, to the level stretch of a drive, beyond which , smooth 
expanses of lawn, interspersed with belts of evergreen and clus- 
ters of rare shrubbery, seemed to sweep over the brow of a 
gentle hill or slope. 

A few minutes’ walk through grounds which, even by the 
uncertain starlight, Clara could perceive were picturesquely 
laid out and beautifully kept, brought them to the house of 
Severn’s Tower, a structure of gray stone, built in castle fash- 
ion, close to the high tower, which seemed separated by a wall 
below, and a sort of gallery or bridge leading from the main 


Mi: BELLE OF SAJIATOGA. 


m 


building to its central door. Black-green ivy draped the entire 
north side, and a mystic-looking grove of old cedars, gnarled 
and twisted like misshapen creatures of the forest, sloped down 
beyond the tower to what seemed to Clara^s unaccustomed eye 
an interminable growth of woods. 

Entering a low stone portico, above which the carved faces 
of hideous monsters leered down at them, Mrs. Armour beck- 
oned to her young companion to follow her. 

‘‘We are home at last, my dear,^^ she said. 

Clara followed her into a lofty old hall, about twenty-two 
feet wide, upon whose stone floor a gorgeous strip of Turkey 
carpet, fringed all around in rainbow colors, was laid, and 
whose gloomy angles were illuminated by the blaze of a huge 
wood fire, piled high in a wide chimney. The odor of the burn- 
ing pine logs diffused a pleasant balsamic odor throughout the 
apartment, while their ruddy shine rendered the sconces of 
wax candles on either side of the chimney quite unnecessary. 
A few ponderous-looking chairs, carved in massive oak, that 
was nearly black with age, stood around,.and a number of pict- 
ures, whose dark coloring defied all attempts to decipher their 
subjects, hung on the walls. 

As Clara stood looking at these things, with a forlorn home- 
sick sensation of loneliness stealing over her, Mrs. Armour^s 
pleasant voice interrupted her thoughts. 

“ Sit down. Miss Smith, and warm yourself. The fire feels 
comfortable, although it is still early in the season, and 1 dare 
say you are quite chilled through, with the night breeze blow- 
ing over the water. 

Clara obeyed, with a word or two of thanks. The genial 
blaze did indeed feel grateful, as she spread her slender fingers 
to its ruby glow. 

“ Your room will be ready directly,^^ added Mrs. Armour. 
“ I have sent for a servant to guide you thither, and — 

But she was interrupted here. A door beyond swung open 
on its hinges, and a tall, sprite-like creature rushed into the 
room with yellow hair streaming wildly over her shoulders, 
and a white dressing-wrapper of alpaca, or some soft loose 
fabric, belted round her waist, with a cord and tassels of deep 
ruby crimson, while her bare feet were thrust into crimson 
Turkish slippers. 

“ Florine!^ cried Mrs. Armour, deprecatingly, as this singu- 
lar apparition threw its arms round her neck, and literally 
veiled her face with the flow of its abundant hair. 

“ Well, 1 couldnT help it. Aunt Grace. I knew you were 
coming home to-night, and 1 couldnT any more sleep than if 


m 


THE belle OE SAEATOGA. 


a regiment of cavalry had been racing through my room all 
night long. And, oh! grandmamma has- been so cross, 
and—^^ 

“ Florine, my child, checked Mrs. Armour, reprovingly, 
“ if you will stop squeezing my neck and look around, you will 
perceive that we are not alone 

Florine St. Severn’s arms dropped to her side — she threw 
back, with a quick, graceful motion of her head, the luxuri- 
ance of yellow hair, and turned, as her aunt said: 

“ This is your new governess. Miss Smith. Miss Smith, let 
me present to you Florine St. Severn, the most willful and 
unmanageable little elf in the United States.” 

Florine walked up to the tall, slender figure standing so hes- 
itatingly in the fire-light, and looked up into her face with 
something of her father’s keen, eagle-like gaze. 

“ Miss — Smith!” she repeated, slowly. “ I don’t know 
whether 1 shall like you or not! You are very beautiful — but 
what made you cut olf your hair?” 

Florine!” remonstrated Mrs. Armour; but Clara, instead 
of answering the child’s question, drew the slight form close 
to her, and pressed a loving kiss on the ripe little cherry of a 
mouth. 

‘‘ I am quite sure I shall like you, Florine,” she said. 

And Florine St. Severn did look very lovable, with her rose- 
clear complexion, the deep hazel eyes which contrasted so 
beautifully with the streaming gold of her luxuriant hair, and 
the child-like freshness of her manner. 

“ But you’re as much of a child as I am!” she cried. 
“ You’re not a bit grim. Do you suppose you can make me 
mind?” 

“ J don’t care whether you mind or not,” said Clara, laugh- 
ing ill spite of herself, “ so long as we are good friends.” 

“ Then you’ll suit me,” said Florine, dancing up and down 
on the pointed toes of her Turkish slippers, and actually vol- 
unteering a kiss of her own unsought will, greatly to Mrs. 
Armour’s surprise and self-gratulation. “ Aunt Grace, I 
think you’ve brought me a splendid governess.” 

“ My dear, you must not be quite so demonstrative,” said 
Mrs. Armour. “Here comes Mrs. Parker to show Miss 
Smith to her room. Oh, by the way, Mrs. Parker,” as a 
stout, elderly woman in a neat cap and a dress of some brown 
worsted material entered the hall, carrying a light in a frosted 
silver candlestick, “ what visitors had you so late?” 

“ Visitors, ma’am?” echoed the old woman. “ I beg par- 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 175 

don lor being so stupid, but I don’t think I rightly understand 
you.” 

“ We met them coming over in a boat — there was a woman 
and a, man.” 

Tve seen no woman nor man, ma’am, since sunset,” 
answered the puzzled housekeeper. 

“ They were certainly coming from Severn’s Tower,” per- 
sisted Mrs. Armour. 

“ I think you must have been mistaken, ma’am,” said Mrs. 
Parker, resolutely. “We have had no visitors at the Tower 
this evening.” 

“ It’s very strange, at all events,” said Mrs. Armour. “ Is 
my mother up?” 

“ No, ma’aui — she retired some time since.’’ 

“ Then I’ll go to bed myself, for 1 am very tired. Come 
with me, Florine — and you, Parker, show Miss Smith to her 
room. My dear, Parker will see that you are made comfort- 
able,” she added, speaking to Clara. 

“Yes, ma’am — certainly, ma’am,” assented Mrs. Parker, 
looking curiously at the stranger. “ It’s the little corner 
room, just over the library, that I think you wished to be 
prepared for the young lady, ma’am?” 

“Yes.” 

“ It’s quite right, ma’am. Please to walk this way, miss.” 

And Clara, wearied and dizzy with the night’s journey, fol- 
lowed Mrs. Parker and her candle through a carpeted corridor, 
up a broad flight of black walnut stairs, with carved rails, and 
then through another hall into the apartment which it had 
been designed she should occupy. 

“ This is your room, miss,” said the old housekeeper, set- 
ting the candlestick on the mantel. “ Is there anything I can 
do for you?” 

“ Nothing — thanks.” 

“ Your trunk is already there,” said Mrs. Parker, nodding 
toward the alcove, in which was an elegant little French bed- 
stead, with hangings of white and crimson. And then she 
withdrew, wishing Miss Smith “good-night and pleasant 
dreams.” 

As soon as she was alone, Clara looked round upon the cheer- 
ful room. It was rather small, but exceedingly snug. A 
crimson carpet, bordered round with a scroll-like pattern of 
pure white, shaded into pearl-gray, where it met the body of 
the carpet, covered the floor — the mantel and hearth were of 
white marble, where danced the reflection of a fire of cedar- 
sticks, supported by bright brass andirons, and the top of the 


176 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


former was draped with crimson damask^ decorated with a 
pair of tall, slender vases, filled with late roses and gorgeously 
quilled dahlias. White muslin curtains, surmounted with 
fringed lambrequins of crimson damask, hung before the win- 
dows, and the walls, papered in white and gold, were hung 
with a few choice little flower-pieces in vivid water-colors. A 
white muslin fall of drapery concealed the alcove, where the 
bedstead and washing conveniences were placed, and the furni- 
ture throughout was of crimson enamel, outlined and paneled 
with white. A low rocking-chair stood before the fire, and 
on a stand close by was placed a small silver pitcher of iced 
water, a silver goblet, and a porcelain basket of peaches and 
hothouse grapes. 

It would be diflicult to imagine a more cheerful little 
room, and Clara involuntarily felt her spirits rise as she gazed 
round her. Lifting the muslin shield of the window nearest 
her, she glanced out upon the outer world, and saw beyond the 
wooded shores of the island, the dark-blue glitter of the broad, 
serene river, with the few lights on the distant shore beyond. 

How peaceful and serene it looked! And as she stood there, 
the chirp of autumnal insects filled the air with their noisy 
melody, and the fire, crackling softly on the hearth, added to 
the quiet sounds. 

“How pleasant it is here!’^ thought Clara. “Oh! I am 
sure I shall succeed at Severn^3 Tower. My little pupil may be 
wild and wayward, but I shall gain her affections after awhile, 
and no one could help loving Mrs. Armour. It will be my 
own fault if I do not in time become contented. For real act- 
ual happiness I have no right to look.^^ 

She sat on a low ottoman, where the fire-light almost 
scorched her cheek, looking into the red, fragrant embers, and 
thinking of the strange past that seemed to have floated away 
from her like the unreal visions of fever. 

Where was her absent husband, and what was he thinking 
of now? Had he learned to forget her, or did he sometimes 
vouchsafe a remorseful thought to the child-wife who had given 
him her whole heart, only to have its aspirations blighted and 
repulsed — who was to him as one dead! 

And Clara’s tears, dropping softly on the gay arabesques of 
the velvet rug at her feet, gave token that the love in her own 
bosom — the love slighted and repelled — was as true and tender 
as ever. Poor girl! She could repress and conceal it, but she 
could not conquer it. Such a love as hers was necessarily 
an integral part of her nature, and could only perish when life 
itself died out of her veins and pulses! 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


177 


11; was late when she lay down to sleep, nor was the repose 
that followed either refreshing or invigorating. In dreams she 
saw again and again her mother’s face close to her, luridly 
illuminated by a red phantom light, full of threatening and 
baleful fire, and starting from her slumbers, bathed in cold 
perspiration, could scarcely realize that she was alone! 

Toward morning, however, she fell into a heavy, dreamless 
slumber, from which she seemed to awaken all of a sudden, as 
if some unseen hand had touched her shoulder and bidden her 
rouse. 

This time she was not alone. A curious figure bent and 
crooked, with yellow face set off with glittering jewels, and a 
long fringed shawl, richly embroidered with gold thread, was 
bending over the toilet-table, curiously examining the bunch 
of keys which Clara had thrown down there when she un- 
locked her trunk. 

She leaned heavily on a gold -headed cane, and mouthed and 
muttered to herself, her lips working busily, although not a 
sound issued from between her yellow and protruding tusks of 
teeth. 

So like the embodiment of a hideous nightmare did she seem 
that Clara could scarcely believe herself thoroughly awake at 
first. But the fire-light, fed with new sticks, apparently, 
shone brightly, and revealed every wrinkle in the distorted 
countenance — every glitter of the superb dress which trailed 
on the carpet, with lustrous, shining folds, as the old crone 
turned hither and thither, still working her mouth in a sort of 
dumb fury. 

Suddenly, she turned abruptly and hobbled up to the bed- 
side, tapping her cane softly as she walked, and Clara could see 
that her yellow bands were sparkling with emeralds and dia- 
monds, and that wide gold bands, with hanging chains, en- 
circled her shrunk wrists, while diamond solitaires of great size 
and brilliance weighed down the discolored flaps of her ears. 

Taught by some subtle instinct, which she herself probably 
could not have satisfactorily explained, the girl lay motionless 
like one wrapped in the slumbers that wait on utter fatigue, as 
this strange-looking old creature approached, although the 
warm current in her veins seemed to congeal as the hot^ fevered 
breath of the night visitor fanned the curls on her temples, 
and drove the flush from her cheeks. 

Although she could not see, she felt the scrutiny to which 
she was being subjected; she felt the burning, green-gray, eyes 
travel over every feature of her face, as if their light was really 
a fiery glow; she knew that every garment she wore was being 


178 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


examined, every ringlet of her hair scanned, and presently, 
lifting the silken coverlid as lightly as if her touch had been 
that of a gossamer thistle-down, the old hag turned back the 
loose sleeve that concealed Clara’s arm, and scrutinized its 
white beauty an instant. 

“ I thought so!” she muttered, for the first time breaking 
the silence. ‘‘ I thought so. — the bloody heart! Welladay — 
the time has come and the hour! A bloody heart brings a 
bloody hand — it isn’t my fault! I would have let her alone, if 
she would have let me alone —now, the consequences must rest 
on her own head. No one can quarrel with fate, or fight 
against it; who should know that better than myself? ’ 

And moaning and shuddering as she went, the strange, bent 
woman, in the trailing silks and gold-broidered shawl rustled 
softly out of the room as a dead leaf flutters over the forest 
path. 

As the door closed noiselessly behind her retreating deform- 
ity, Clara raised herself to a sitting posture, trembling and 
sick, as if some mortal blow had fallen on her, and turned 
back the sleeves of her night-robe to examine, with her own 
eyes, the tiny birth-mark, whose existence she had always 
known, but which she had never thought of save as a little 
crimson dot, or blotch, hardly larger than a dew-drop. It 
was plainly perceptible upon the upper part of her arm near 
the shoulder, where it was always concealed by the sleeves of 
her dresses — and as she looked at it, the rosy tides of life seemed 
to ebb away from her cheek, leaving it a dull white. 

The old woman had spoken truly — she wondered she herself 
had not before observed the singular outline. It was a bloody 
heart! 

Shuddering with some nameless dread and terror, Clara 
Romayne sunk back once more among her pillows, hiding her 
face under the coverlid. There was no more sleep for her 
that night, but she lay with throbbing heart, and senses on the 
alert, to discover the least sight or sound, until the eastern 
sunshine illuminated her room, and various sounds of life and 
animation about the house admonished her that it was time to 
arise to meet the coming exigencies of her new life. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

FLORINE. 

It was nearly eight o’clock when Mrs. Armour, after tapping 
gently at the door, entered the new governess’s apartment. 


'THE BELLE OE SARATOGA. 179 

“ Why, my dear, how pale you are!^^ she cried. “ Did not 
you rest well last night 

“ I was very tired with my yesterday^'s journey, answered 
Clara, evasively. “I shall feel quite refreshed in a day or 
two. 

“ 1 hope so, 1 am sure,^^ said the lady, kindly. In the 
meantime, I am here to summon you to your breakfast. 
Florine has been up these two hours, anxiously awaiting your 
appearance. And,^^ as Clara rose to follow her, “ 1 came to 
call you myself, greatly to your young pupiFs disappointment, 
because I wished for a word or two with you before we joined 
the family circle. My mother is very old and whimsical, and 
apt to be rude in her remarks, and 1 want to beg you to follow 
our example of excusing and overlooking any breach of polite- 
ness or outbreak of temper which you may happen to observe 
in her.^^ 

“ Certainly, madame,^^ assented Clara, coloring as she re- 
membered the adventure of the preceding night — an adventure 
which she had made up her mind was best to keep strictly to 
herself. 

“ I fear you will find her very trying — we all do,’^ added 
Mrs. Armour, with a sigh; but her age and her many physical 
afflictions entitle her to every consideration. So you must do 
the best you can.^^ 

And with these words, spoken in somewhat of a despairing 
manner, Mrs. Armour conducted Clara down-stairs to the 
breakfast-table, at which the old woman who had so disturbed 
her slumbers a few hours ago sat enthroned on a huge velvet 
easy-chair, all a-glitter with jewels and precious stones, and 
dressed in rose-colored silk, strewn over with pink and velvet 
leaves, more like the Queen of Sheba grown old and ugly than 
anything else to which Clara’s imagination could liken her. 

She inclined her head almost imperceptibly, and looked 
straight over Clara’s head as the young girl bowed low in ac- 
knowledgment of Mr. Armour’s few words of introduction, 
and immediately began to complain of the delay in the serving 
of breakfast, while Florine ran to kiss and welcome her gov- 
erness. 

She looked even prettier this morning, with her simple blue 
merino dress, and golden hair confined in a light net, than she 
had done in the unconsciously artistic dishabille of the night 
before, and Clara’s heart warmed toward the lovely motherless 
child, who WSLS condemned to so lonely a life with such an un- 
congenial companion as old Mrs. Vavasor. 

“ Why don’t they bring in the coffee, Grace?” demanded 


180 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


the old woman. “ Am I to have any breakfast this morning, 
or not? Ifc seems to me that instead of making so much fuss 
over that young person, you had better attend to the wants of 
your mother. ^ ^ 

“ Don^t be cross, grandmamma,’^ said FJorine. “ The 
coffee is here now, and Aunt Grace is pouring it out for you. ” 

“ Fiorine, you shall not breakfast with me unless you can 
learn to control that impertinent tongue of yours,” cried the 
old woman, her palsied head making the diamond solitaires 
glow and sparkle in her angry emphasis. “ But I suppose it 
is a part of the manners that your new governess teaches 
you.” 

“ She hasn’t taught me anything at all yet, grandmamma,” 
said Fiorine, indifferently. ‘‘ Will you have a wing of a broiled 
chicken, or an egg?” 

“ I will have neither!” snapped Mrs. Vavasour. “ Parker 
knows that 1 can’t breakfast without quails on toast, and if you 
are determined to starve me — ” 

“Yes, ma’am — it’s here, ma’am,” said the devoted Parker, 
who was engaged at a side-table in the old lady’s behoof. 

“ Well, then, why don’t you bring it to me?” 

The reply was to place the silver chafing-dish before the old 
lady’s plate, and seeing nothing else to find fault with, just at 
the precise minute, she began to eat, munching and mouthing 
simultaneously, while Fiorine attended to her governess’s wants. 

Presently Mrs. Vavasor laid down her fork, shook out her 
damask napkin by way of challenge, and abruptly began: 

“ I don’t think you’ll like her!” 

“ Who, mamma?” inquired Aunt Grace. 

“ That chit there,” nodding her head toward Clara. 
“ She’s too young, and she’s conceited, too. I can see it.” 

“ Mamma!” faltered Mrs. Armour, and Clara colored scar- 
let. 

“ A red and white skin and black eyes won’t last forever,” 
snarled Mrs. Vavasor, tapping her jeweled fingers on the 
table. “ Look at me. 1 was a beauty once. Sow 1 am a 
yellow old effigy, with a bent back and only three teeth in my 
head. It’s what you’ll come to some day. Miss Governess, 
with all your airs and your graces!” 

“Mamma,” expostulated Mrs. Armour, “I do not think 
Miss Smith has any airs and graces. ” 

“ 1 see through her better than you,” persisted Mrs. Vava- 
sor. “ Why, child. I’m seventy years old. It is just like 
Eustace St. Severn to engage the first smirking doll that came 
along — much he knows about governesses!” 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


181 


“ Papa is quite right, grandmamma/^ said Floriue, moving 
her chair close to Clara, and putting one arm caressingly about 
the girPs shoulder, while, with the other hand, she smoothed 
down the loose jetty curls; “ you used to choose my governesses 
and 1 never could endure them.'’^ 

“ Hold your tongue, miss,^^ cried Mrs. Vavasor, ‘‘ or 1 shall 
send for Miss Yardly back again 

“ And I won^t have Miss Yardly in the house, grandmam- 
ma!^^ stoutly replied Florine. “ Now, you may just as well 
leave off scolding; you know papa lets me have my own way/’^ 

Mrs. Vavasor dragged out a costly embroidered handker- 
chief and applied it to her eyes. Clara looked painfully em- 
barrassed. Aunt Grace seemed hurt and vexed; but Florine, 
slipping out of her chair, ran round to the old lady’s side, and 
dragged the handkerchief away from a pair of tearless eyes. 

‘‘ Eat your breakfast, grandmamma,” she said, lightly, 
“ or I’ll certainly go off to boarding-school, and leave you.” 

The old lady rose up, seized her gold-headed cane, and 
briskly descended from her red velvet cushioned throne. 

“ Give me your arm, Grace,” she said, sharply, to Mrs. 
Armour, who had also risen from her seat, behind the tall sil- 
ver service. “ 1 have eaten breakfast enough — let those that 
haven’t take care of themselves.” 

And as she went out of the room, leaning heavily on her 
daughter’s arm, Clara distinctly heard her say : 

“ 1 shall write to Eustace that she won’t do. She is too 
pretty, and too young, and too great a fool!” 

“But, mamma — ” mildly remonstrated Mrs. Armour. 

“ 1 tell you,” snarled the old woman, “ 1 won’t have her in 
the house! I’ve taken a dislike to her!” 

At the door closed with a bang, Florine looked wistfully into 
her governess’s face. 

“ You won’t mind grandmamma. Miss Smith, will you?” 
she said, pleadingly. “ I don’t.” 

“ I know, Florine, but if she really has taken such an an- 
tipathy to me — ” 

“ Nonsense! It is no such thing. She takes an antipathy 
to everybody — it’s her way. If Aunt Grace hadn’t been here 
I would have told her just exactly what 1 thought of her pounc- 
ing down upon you in that red Indian fashion — it would have 
done her good. But Aunt Grace is so soft-hearted that I can’t 
bear to see her annoyed. She don’t know that it’s the only 
way to manage grandmamma. Wait until she goes away next 
week, that’s all!” 

“ Is she going away next week?” 


‘ 182 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


“ Of course she is. I wouldn^t stay here in this old dungeon 
of a place if 1 was she!^^ answered Florine, indifferently. 

Clara felt as if the sole anchorage of her position would be 
wrenched away when gentle Mrs. Armour left her — as if it 
would be impossible for her to exist in companionship with 
that strange, witch-like old woman. Involuntarily she sighed. 

“ I know what you are thinking of/^ said Florine; “but 
you^ll get along nicely when grandmamma has once discovered 
that she can/t intimidate you. 1 like you. Miss Smith, and I^ni 
the real mistress of the house, although I am only thirteen years 
old. Come with me, now, that is if you won^t have any more 
coffee, and Fll show you the gardens, and the hot-houses, and 
all my pet dogs and horses. For of course you won^t begin 
studies to-day.^ 1^11 commence to-morrow in good earnest, for 
I know l^m an awfully ignorant little beast 

“ Are you, really, Florine?'^ 

“ Oh, you know I can^t help it, for I have always fought my 
governesses. Grandmamma would get such a set of old pussy 
cats here with wigs, you know, and spectacles, and dresses that 
rustled like stiff newspapers, and such a way of talking through 
their noses. But 1^11 learn now. Miss Smith — I really will, if 
you ^11 only be a little patient with me, and remember what a 
spoiled child I have always been.^^ 

And, as the two girls walked down the broad garden path, 
with their arms wreathed together, they seemed more like two 
playmates than pupil and governess. 

Old Mrs. Vavasor, watching them with a malevolent eye 
from a window in the old gray tower, ejaculated the mono- 
syllable “ Pshaw in a very discontented tone of voice, as she 
saw them, while Mrs. Armour, at her side, could not help think- 
ing within herself what a very pretty sight it was. 

Mrs. Vavasor went to her room — the handsomest room in 
Severn^s Tower — and sat down to think, while Clara and Flo- 
rine were passing away the bright hours of the October fore- 
noon in wandering about the grounds of the island. 

Severn^s Tower was situated nearly in the middle of the 
island, and to the east sloped away the gardens in a long suc- 
cession of sunny terraces, approached by flights of gray-stone 
steps, and made beautiful by rustic summer-houses, tinkling 
fountains, long flagged walks, overarched by twisted boughs, 
over which the most luxurious creepers made a perfect canopy 
of odorous shade, and borders gay with asters, verbenas, 
geraniums, and autumn flowers of every color. 

Beyond these gardens lay the green-houses, inclosed bits of 
the tropics, where golden oranges and lemons drooped from 


THE BELLE OF SAIIATOGA. 


183 


vigorous trees, and passion vines swung their crimson chalices 
against the glass, while feathery acacias and dark-leaved japo- 
nicas overshadowed orchidaceous plants, and miniature thickets 
of rare ferns. 

To Clara it was like a peep into the enchanted regions of 
fairy-land; nor was she less pleased with the long row of 
graperies, where the white and purple fruit hung in clustered 
luxuriance, absorbing the tide of sunshine as it swept down 
through the glazed roofs, and lost itself among the leaves of 
innumerable vines like a torrent of rarefied gold. 

On the western side of the island a very different plan of 
landscape had been preserved. With the exception of a strip 
of closely-mown lawn close under the Tower windows, it was 
left to the original wildness of nature, and the woods grew 
densely to the very water^s edge, with meadows beyond, and 
sylvan stretches of green fields, dotted here and there by huge 
oaks or mammoth chestnut-trees. 

“ What a beautiful mansion the Tower is!^’ said Clara, as 
the two girls sat on a low bench, where a rustic bridge spanned 
a mimic water-fall, beneath the shadow of a magnificent old 
willow. “ It must be very large, Florine.^^ 

“It is too large,^^ said the child, slightly contracting her 
brows. “ 1 would give all the world. Miss Smith, sometimes, 
to live in a little tiny cottage like the gardener^s house. 1 get 
so tired of the big, echoing halls and the huge empty, rooms, 
and the silence of the whole house. 

“ Poor child! You must be very lonely at times,^^ sighed 
Clara, thinking of her own isolated life. “ But what is the use 
of that great stone tower 

“It isiiT stone, said Florine; “only stuccoed to imitate 
the rest of the mansion. Papa says it is a monument of the 
bad taste of Eobert St. Severn, his grandfather, and he^s 
always threatening to tear it down, only he never has. I wish 
he would; I’m tired and sick of it.” 

“ But it’s very picturesque.” 

“ It would be,” said Florine, “ if you didn’t know it wasn’t 
stone — only a humbug of paint, and stucco, and timber. 
There are some pretty rooms in it, and such an odd, delight- 
ful way of getting at them, across the little balconied bridge 
with the striped awning over it. I lived there two or three 
weeks last summer. It’s very nice for once in a way, just ex- 
actly like Kobinson Crusoe on his desert island.” 

“ Florine, how old are you?” asked Clara, after a moment 
or two of silence. 

“ I am thirteen. ” 


184 


THE BELLE OF SAKATOGA. 


“ And I am in my seventeenth year/^ said Clara, thought- 
fully. “ Have you always lived here?^^ 

“Oh, no. I was born in Italy. 

“ In Italy — with that golden hair?^^ 

“ Ah, but mamma was an American. She used to say my 
eyes were my Italian heritage.” 

“You remember her, then?” 

“Oh, yes. I was ten years old when she died. Since then 
I have been left almost altogether to grandmamma^s charge, 
except now and then when papa was at home. But he travels 
a great deal, and Aunt Grace is here very little. When 1 have 
finished my education, papa says 1 shall go with him to visit 
my birthplace.” 

Florine’s cheek had flushed and her eyes sparkled with ani- 
mation as she spoke of these things, but the next moment she 
sighed a little sadly. 

“ But you see. Miss Smith, I have hardly begun it yet, so 
my voyage will have to be indefinitely postponed. I have an 
uncle, too — Uncle Guy, who is in Switzerland now. He is, 
oh, so nice! 1 wish he was here now. He wouldn^tlet grand- 
mamma abuse you so. He is the only one of the family that 
stands up for me!” 

“Oh, Florine,^^ gently remonstrated her governess, “ your 
father!” 

“ Papa says I^ve got a horrid temper, and so I have; and 
grandmamma is not improving it, either. I do get into such 
a rage, and then it seems as if I lost control of myself entirely ! 
But after all, it^s very wrong of me, for I think grandmamma 
loves me after her queer, disagreeable fashion, and sometimes 
I could pinch myself to think IVe been so cross with her!” 

As Clara sat listening to the artless confidence of this pretty 
young creature, she seemed, as it were, to obtain the clew to 
the misguided, warped nature — to read all its generous im- 
pulses and springs of affection, as well as its strong, ungov- 
erned passions and erring fancies. Her heart involuntarily 
went out to meet that of the lonely little heiress, and she drew 
Florine closer to her side. 

“ Let us go in now, Florine,” she said, as the child silently 
returned her caress. “ I think we shall love each other after 
awhile. ” 

And Mrs. Vavasor, sitting in her velvet throne in the par- 
lor, and seeing the girls return as they had gone out, snarled 
hoarsely, beneath her breath: 

“The way of the world — the way of the world! I have 
loved Florine these thirteen years, and yet this upstart of a 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


185 


whom she has known scarcely thirteen hours, stands nearer 
to her fickle heart than I shall ever do. I hate the governess! 
1 wish she was dead!’^ 


CHAPTEE XXVIII. 

THE SEARCH STILL BAFFLED. 

Upoft the very day in which Clara Eomayne sat beside the 
noisy trickle of the little water-fall at Severn^s Tower, with 
Florine nestling close to her side, her husband leaned against 
the guards of one of the magnificent steam-palaces which ply 
between Albany and Xew York, watching the green, sylvan 
beauty of the little island, from whose foliage the octagonal 
tower rose up, as he had many a time seen castled turrets ris- 
ing along the shores of- the river Ehine. 

As long as the gray tower remained visible, he strained his 
eyes to gaze on its romantic beauty. Ah! if he had but known 
that the wife after whom his heart yearned so fervently was 
hidden away in that green isle like a precious jewel in its 
casket! 

But it is often so in this life; we unconsciously stand close 
to the darling objects of our hopes and wishes, and never 
know, until it is too late, how near we have been to the realiza- 
tion of our dreams! There is no mesmeric thrill to warn us; 
no magnetic current to bridge the woful gulf between heart 
and heart, and so our lives drag drearily on unto the bitter end. 
When, at last, a slight bend in the majestic sweep of the river 
hid Severn^s Tower from his sight, he began slowly to pace up 
and down the deck with folded arms, and eyes that perceived 
none of the gay life and animation around him. 

All that he saw was a pure oval face, where the almond- 
shaped eyes glowed softly at every loving glance of his own, 
and the carmine bloom came and went like shadows on a field 
of crimson clover — all that he heard was the soft, hesitating 
voice, whose tones, audible no more, alas! should haunt him 
with their plaintive music for evermore. 

What would he not have given once more to fold his lost 
wife to his bosom and feel that she was all his own, to have and 
to hold forever? All the wealth of the Indies, had it been his; 
all the storied treasures of Golconda^s mines would have been 
as naught in the balance against one of those vanished smiles, 
a single tremulous accent of the girlish voice. 

Life without Clara seemed a gift scarce worthy the accept- 
ance; he kept assuring himself with fevered eagerness that 
the search he had set on foot must eventually prove successful; 


186 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


that so young and inexperienced a creature could not long 
evade pursuit, when that pursuit was dictated by such earnest 
devotion, and prosecuted with such scientific skill. 

“ 8he did love me,^^ he reiterated within himself; “ she did 
love me, or there is no truth in woman^s glance and woman'^s 
tones. And 1 know that if once 1 could see her face to face, 
1 would back the frightened dove of a heart to my bosom. I 
would will it; no obstacle that ever blocked man^s pathway 
would be aught in my eyes. Oh, Clara! my lost treasure — 
my sweet girl-wife, if you were once beside me, I would never 
breathe a murmur of discontent more!^^ 

As he paced slowly up and down the upper deck, blind to 
the grand panorama of scenery that surrounded him on either 
side, and utterly regardless of the balmy beauty of the bland 
October day, a young man rose suddenly from the place beneath 
the awning, where he had been lounging with a book, his Pan- 
ama hat thrown on the floor beside him, and his bright chest- 
nut hair tossed carelessly back from his low, Antinous-like 
brow, and advanced toward him. 

“ Surely I can not be mistaken, he said, courteously, for 
Philip Lennoxes haughty eyes were fixed somewhat supercili- 
ously upon him, as if questioning his right to interrupt the 
moody current of his meditations. “ 1 am speaking to Mr. 
Lennox?'’^ 

“ You are, sir,^^ curtly acknowledged Philip. 

“ Have you forgotten Guy Vavasor, old fellow?’^ cheerily 
demanded the young man, grasping both 'Lennoxes hands; 
“ have you entirely lost sight of the old days when you, and I, 
and Greve St. Coeur climbed Mont Blanc together and sat in 
the ruins of the Colisseum by moonlight? Why, man, I should 
havn known you if I had met you in China 

The whole expression of Philip Lennoxes face changed as he 
looked into Vavasor^s sunny, violet eyes, and he wrung the 
young man^s hand until he was fain laughingly to withdraw it. 

“ Gently, old boy> gently,”^ he laughed; “ you have the old 
vise-like grip in your fingers still. And to think that you 
should iPt have known me! Well, I suppose I am changed 
since we parted on the shores of the Bay of Naples, some three 
years ago. 

But how long have you been in this country questioned 
Lennox, eagerly. 

‘ ‘ Only since night before last. 1 spent the summer in Switz- 
erland with a party of tourists from New Orleans— a jolly set 
they were, too. And you, Phil, how has the world used you, 
in the three years of our separation?'' 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


187 


‘‘Oh! according to the usual routine, 1 suppose/^ answered 
Lennox, with something of bitterness in his accents. “ Sweet 
and bitter, sunshine and shadow, is the ordinary lot of man, 1 
believe!^' 

“ 1 heard of Wycherly’s death, poor fellow!’^ said Vavasor, 
his voice softening as he spoke. “ It was very sudden, was it 
not?^"^ 

“ Very sudden. He was killed in a railroad accident early 
last summer. 

“ And his wife?’^ 

“ She is in Europe now.’^ 

“ That was a very unsuitable marriage, hazarded Vavasor. 

“ Very,^^ was the brief reply. 

“ And what do you suppose I heard about you?^^ questioned 
Vavasor, merrily, as if he would fain shake off the sadness of 
the previously mentioned associations. “ That you have mar- 
ried. Of course 1 knew it was not true; and — 

“ You were in error, then,^^ said Philip Lennox, quietly. 
“ It was true!^^ 

Vavasor drew a long breath of incredulous astonishment. 

“ That you were married?^' he cried. 

“ That I was married 

“ And who was the lady?^ 

“ Her name was Miss Eomayne.^^ 

“ Is she with you?^^ 

“ Iso/’ Lennox answered, with a slight spasmodic contrac- 
tion of his brows, as if from some inward pain. “ I have lost 
her.'’^ 

“ Lost her! Oh, my poor boy!"^ echoed Vavasor, with the 
same outspoken sympathy he would have proffered his friend 
in their school-boy days. “ When did she die?"^ 

“ Guy,’' said Lennox, slowly, and in a set tone of voice, as 
if striving hard to repress some mental emotion, “ you know, 
dear old fellow, that your sympathy is welcome to me, but 1 
can not yet speak much on this subject. You won’t be 
offended if 1 request you to avoid it for the present?’ 

“Offended! No, of course not. But 1 do feel sorry for 
you.” 

“ 1 know it.” 

A brief silence ensued, and then Lennox spoke again, on an 
entirely new subject. 

“ So you are coming home for good?” 

“ I don’t know whether it will be for good or for bad,” 
wearily responded Vavasor; “ but I’ve become heartily tired 
of roaming over the world like a modern edition of the Wan- 


188 


THE BELLE OE SARATOGA. 


dering Jew, and, for the present, at least, I intend to become 
a domestic character. 

“ Are you on your way home?’’ 

“ ISlo — I promised to meet some friends in Albany, but in 
a day or two, it nothing intervenes to mar my plans, I shall 
come down by rail to Severn’s Tower on the Hudson, where 
my mother is residing. As for home, I have no settled abid- 
ing-place as yet, but my eldest sister, dead some years ago, was 
married to Mr. St. Severn, of Severn’s Tower, so it seems a 
sort of refuge to me in the absence of a more definite home. 
By the way, old fellow, 1 wish you’d come down there to see 
me. It’s a very romantic spot to drowse away a couple of 
weeks or so. Suppose you try it? It would be a real charity 
to me.” 

“ 1 am much obliged to you,” said Lennox, “ but I have 
neither spirit nor inclination to visit much at present. Just 
now 1 am engrossed with some very absorbing business which 
can neither be postponed nor omitted. So you must find some 
other companion for your ennxiyh hours.” 

It was nearly dusk when they reached Albany, and the two 
friends separated, Guy Vavasor to go to a hotel, and Mr. Len- 
nox to seek at once a plain office up two pairs of stairs, in a 
musty building at the south end of the city. 

“ Is Mr. Abner in?” he asked of a young man who was read- 
ing the newspaper behind a railed desk. 

‘‘Yes, sir,” was the respectful answer. ’ “ It’s Mr. Lennox, 
isn’t it? Please walk into the inner room.” 

The inner room was, if possible, darker, more dismal and 
gloomy than the outer court of audience, and Philip Lennox 
almost stumbled upon a little brown, dried-up man who was 
sitting quite alone before a fireless grate, choked up with old 
newspapers, apple-cores, and cigar-stumps. 

“ Ah, good-evening, Mr. Lennox,” said the fossilized speci- 
men, who was apparently gifted with the cat-like faculty of 
being able to see in the dark. “ Take a chair, sir — take a 
chair. Pine evening, sir.” 

“ Very fine. Have you any news for me, Mr. Abner?” ah 
ruptly demanded Philip Lennox. 

The little brown man stroked his chin with his fingers. 

“1 regret to say, sir, none.” 

“ But, surely, in all this time you must have been able to 
glean someone item of intelligence?” pleaded Lennox, ren- 
dered unreasonable by the stinging anguish of his anxiety. 

“ If I had, sir,” said Mr. Abner, a little reproachfully, “it 
would have been telegraphed at once to Pry & Searchit’s, my 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 189 

New York agents. That was the understanding;, Mr. Lennox, 
I believe?’^ 

“ I know it, Mr. Abner, but this suspense is getting posi- 
tively intolerable.^^ 

“ I dare say it is,^^ said Mr. Abner, who probably knew 
nothing whatever about ‘‘ suspense,^^ except as a dictionary 
word, and who looked placidly at the fire-place with dull, 
glassy eyes, fingering his brown cheek the while, “ I — dare — 
say — it — is.'^^ 

“Is there no possible means of bringing the matter to a 
focus?^^ pleaded Lennox. “It is now more than a month 
since she disappeared.’^ 

“ Exactly so, sir,” observed Mr. Abner, seeing that Lennox 
paused as if expecting something in the shape of an answer. 

“ And we are no nearer the solution of the mystery than we 
were on the day of her flight — if flight it was.” 

“ These things can’t be hurried, Mr. Lennox,” observed Mr. 
Abner, in the tone of voice one might use in quieting a refrac- 
tory child; “ they can’t, indeed, sir.” 

“But sometimes, Mr. Abner,” went on Philip, rising and 
traversing the little room as a chafed lion treads the floor of its 
iron cage, “ a horrible haunting thought comes over me that 
our search is all in vain — that she may be dead!” 

“ No, sir,” answered Mr. Abner, with a quiet conviction 
in his manner; “ you may set your mind at rest as far as that 
is concerned. She is not dead!” 

“ But how do you know?” 

“ No matter how, sir — I do know. It isn’t dead people that 
are puzzling in our line of business — it’s live ones. If she had 
died anywhere, I should have known it within twenty-four 
hours.” 

“ You are sure?” 

“Yes, sir, quite sure,” asserted Mr. Abner. “Now, Mr. 
Lennox, do be advised, and try not to worry unnecessarily. 
We are doing all that can be done, and although it’s contrary 
to our general rule, I don’t mind telling you that we have 
picked up one or two little items. This I have for certaiii — 
one week ago she was in New York.” 

“ Alive and well?” cried Lennox, his heart giving a great 
upward leap of rapture. 

“ Yes, sir, alive and well.” 

“ And where can she be now?” 

“ That I don’t know, but 1 mean to find out, if you will 
only give me time. She is not in New York; so far we are 
sure of our premises, ” 


190 


THE BELLE OF SABATOGA. 


“ And how soon do you anticipate the receipt of further 
tidings?"^ 

“Well, that^s what 1 can^t exactly say,^^ said the little 
brown man, bending over to knock a fat spider olf the extreme 
end of one of the newspapers wedged into the grate. “You 
see, Mr. Lennox, here^s where it is. Our business is a regular 
science; we’ve reduced it to certain limits, and there’s a moral 
certainty of these things narrowing themselves down, after 
awhile. We start, as you may say, in a big circle; we keep 
inside of it, and inside of it all the time, until we’ve got the 
whole matter hedged down into a nutshell. Only give me 
time, and there’s nothing I wouldn’t undertake to discover!” 

“Time!” echoed Lennox, bitterly, “and she wandering 
about the world, homeless and friendless! I tell you, Mr. Ab- 
ner, this drives me mad!” 

“We can’t control a man’s feelings, of course,” observed 
Mr. Abner, serenely watching the fat spider as it skurried 
away toward a crack under the baseboard. “ It’s unfortu- 
nate — very; but we’re doing the best we can for you, Mr. Len- 

lOX.” 

“ But can nothing more be done? My God! are we to sit 
here with folded hands while she — ” 

He stopped short, warned by a stifling sensation in his throat. 

“ We are doing everything that can be of avail,” calmly an- 
swered Mr. Abner. “ There’s not a man alive that can do 
more than I have done, believe me, sir.” 

And Philip Lennox went out into the night, feeling as if it 
would be suffocation to breathe for five minutes longer the 
same atmosphere inhaled by the little brown man who spoke in 
such a subdued voice, and fingered his chin after such an 
automatic fashion. 

From the office of Mr. Abner he went directly to his hotel 
— not to sleep, but to pace his room all the weary night long, 
sLill brooding over the one all-absorbing subject — his lost, 
loved wife, whose image, like the ignis-fatuiis of romance, 
seemed ever to recede from the darkening horizon of his life. 


CHAPTEE XXIX. 

MRS. vavasor’s apartments. 

“ Florine! Florine! Where is Florine?” 

Old Mrs. Vavasor had hobbled like some malevolent old 
fairy into the pretty school-room where Clara Eomayne sat 
reading. It was three o’clock, and her duties for the day were 
over, as far as the role of iustruetress was concerned, while 


THE belle op SARATOGA. 


191 


the books and maps that lay on the center-table, the portfolio 
of drawing materials, and the open boudoir piano in the recess 
of the window, betokened the various occupations which had 
whiled away the morning hours. 

She rose from her seat as the old lady entered — tall, lovely 
and graceful as the slender white tuberoses in the garden with- 
out. Her plain, black dress fell around her in soft, straight 
folds, and the deep blue ribbon at her waist harmonized with 
her creamy complexion, and seemed to lend new languor to 
her liquid eyes. No houri from the pages of poets’ lore could 
have looked more royally beautiful, and old Mrs. Vavasor 
frowned as the keen consciousness of the girl’s rare attrac- 
tions struck like a knife to her heart. 

“I don’t want you,” she said, ungraciously; “1 want 
Florine. ” 

“ She has gone out into the garden, I believe,” said Clara. 
“ Shall 1 go for her?’’ 

“You’ll just mind your own business. Miss Simpson, if 
you please,” said the old lady, one of whose greatest delights 
consisted in ostentatiously forgetting the new governess’s name. 
“ 1 may be an old woman, but I haven’t quite lost the use 
i of my limbs yet, whatever some people would like me to do. 

! 1 can go after my granddaughter myself.” 

. And she disappeared through the glazed door, from which a 
j flight of steps led down on to the upper terrace of the garden. 

1 Clara smiled quietly to herself and resumed her book — the three 
I days of her sojourn at Severn’s Tower had accustomed her to 
the strange freaks and caprices of the gnome-like old creature. 
But she had not many minutes to read undisturbed, for in a 
; very short space of time Mrs. Vavasor returned, panting, and 
I apparently much wearied. 

* “ 1 do think that child comes and goes like a shadow!” she 

1 said, petulantly. “ 1 can not find her anywhere. She is just 
i as likely as not to be out in a boat, half-way across the river, 
i or down in the woods at the water-side. If you were worth a 
! straw. Miss What’s-your-Name, you wouldn’t allow her to 
! roam about in that very uncontrolled and unlady-like way!” 

“But, madame,” pleaded Clara, “ I was expressly desired 
by Mr. St. Severn — ” 

I “ Expressly fiddlesticks!” rudely interrupted the old woman, 
tapping her gold-headed cane upon the floor to drown the 
sound of Clara’s voice. “ That’s neither here nor there. 
Eustace is an indulgent fool, and some day he’ll find it out, 
when it’s too late to mend matters. 1 wanted to send Elorine 
I up to my room to get my case of drops, and 1 might as well 


192 


THE BELLE OE SARATOGA. 


have gone myself and done it as to rush all over the gardens! 
1 can^t send a servant — they are all prying meddlers, except 
Parker, and Parker has gone to Severnsdale. 

“ I will go, madame, if you will tell me which the apart- 
ment is,^^ meekly proffered Clara. 

The old lady glared jealously at her, but the beads of per- 
spiration standing thickly on her yellow brow betokened her 
great fatigue and exhaustion, for Mrs. Vavasor was far from 
strong. 

“ You only want to peep and pry around!^^ she snarled, 
showing her discolored stumps of teeth. 

“ Very well, madame; let it be as you please,^^ said Clara, 
again resuming the book she had laid aside. 

“ But I^m in a hurry for the drops, and Florine isiiT here, 
so I suppose you may as well go,^^ grudgingly admitted Mrs. 
Vavasor. “ It^s the front room, as you go up the broad stair- 
case, and here’s the key — 1 hope to goodness you’ve got no 
wax about you to take the impression of it — and you’ll find a 
black morocco case in the top drawer of the big secretary at 
the right-hand corner as you go in. Now, be quick! I can’t 
sit here all day with this ugly pain between my shoulders. ” 

Naturally light and quick in all her movements, Clara Ko- 
mayne took the key and hurried upon her mission. But, anx- 
ious as she was to fulfill her errand as expeditiously as possi- 
ble, she could not but pause on the threshold of Mrs. Vavasor’s 
room, startled and surprised at the splendor that characterized 
its furniture and decorations. 

The floor was of walnut boards waxed until they shone like 
the surface of a mirror; in the center a square old Persian car- 
peting glistened with the rich colors of foreign looms, and the 
walls were of pink, paneled, with gold, while the ceiling over- 
head was formed by a broad sheet or convex dome of rose-col- 
ored glass, threaded and braided with hair-like lines of gold 
traversing each other in various directions, so that the room 
seemed perpetually to glow with the soft radiance of crimson 
clouds, through which the sunset gold threw its beamy lines, 
creating a never-ending illusion. 

Curtains of pink crape, edged with a fringe of some feath- 
ery, foam-like material, veiled the windows, which were filled 
with gorgeous cages, from whose glittering prisons foreign 
birds sung and warbled with piercing shrillness, while a weird- 
faced monkey sat on the top of the satin wood secretaire, and 
rattled restlessly at the links of the gilded chain which con- 
fined him to an ornamented staple in the wall. The furniture 
was satinwood upholstered with pink damask, and superb mir- 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


193 


rors, statuettes, pictures, and marvels of Sevres china and 
Bohemian glass crowded the rooms with their splendid profu- 
sion. 

Through a door opening out of the apartment, Clara could 
see another room, furnished in exactly similar style, except 
that it was evidently intended for a sleeping apartment. A 
low, luxurious couch, pillowed with white cambric and covered 
with pink damask, edged with swan's-down, was visible 
through the rose-colored cloud of lace which fell over it from a 
gilded canopy in the ceiling, and the bureaus, dressing-table, 
and stands were all scattered with cut-glass bottles, gold per- 
fume-caskets, jewels and laces, as if an empress had made her 
toilet there. Truly, old Mrs. Vavasor had luxurious tastes, 

I and loved to enjoy them! 

i With but one glance at these Oriental rooms, Clara went to 
I the secretaire, a little fearful of the chattering monkey over- 
I head, and starting at the hoarse cry of a scarlet macaw, who 
was hanging downward from a sandalwood swing depending 
I from the windows. In the top drawer of the secretaire, ac- 
I cording to directions, she found a black morocco case, which 
I she concluded to be the article of which she was in search, and 
I reclosing the drawer, watched the while by the bright, weird 
j orbs of the monkey and the yellow, glassy eyes of the macaw, 

; turned away. But as she turned the monkey gave a down- 
ward spring, and missing his aim for Clara's left shoulder, 
through her instinctive start of terror, alighted among a pile 
of books on a little stand beyond. The books came to the 
ground with a simultaneous crash, the monkey leaped away 
into the hollow depths of the pink damask easy-chair, shell- 
shaped, with its convolutions laid down by gold cord, and 
: Clara, smiling at her own fear of the outlandish little animal, 
stooped to replace the scattered volumes, hoping that Mrs. 
Vavasor would not find very much fault with her for a delay 
that seemed to be unavoidable. 

As she replaced the last book her eye fell upon something 
oblong and white on the carpet, half under the draperies of a 
chair — a carte-de-visite, which must have slipped from be- 
tween the pages of one of the falling books. She picked it up 
from the spot where it lay face downward, and, with the un- 
conscious instinct of girlish curiosity turned it to look at the 
picture represented. 

It was her own face! 

If the velvet-like angels of the Persian carpet beneath her 
feet had suddenly yawned in rifts and seams to swallow her up 
— if the translucent rose and gold ceiling of the room had in- 


194 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA » 


stantaneously floated away, like a mammoth cloud. Into the 
blue cerulean overhead, Clara could hardly have stood more 
thunder-struck and astonished than she did at that moment, 
looking, as in a diminishing mirror, at the exquisite lineaments 
of her own face, as she had been at Saratoga, the jetty masses i 
of her unshorn hair hanging in low coils at the back of her I 
neck, and a single cluster of white rosebuds woven among 
their darkness — a vignette, taken at Wycherly Lennox\s desire i 
the week before the appointed day of their uncompleted | 
bridal. There had been but two copies preserved — the one 1 
for Wycherly, the other given to her mother, who had had it 
framed in blue velvet and mother-of pearl at Lennoxes ex- i 
pense, it need hardly be added, to beautify her own apart- ! 
ment. Philip was now in possession of that which had for- ! 
merly belonged to Wycherly — whence, therefore, had this 
picture come? Why was it here? 

With a thousand vague, shifting conjectures chasing each j 
other through her bewildered brain, Clara left the room, care- 
fully locking the door behind her, and hastened down the 
stairs to the school-room, where Mrs. Vavasor was awaiting i 
her reappearance. 

“ Have you got the drops, and why didnT you stay all 
day?^^ peremptorily demanded the old woman, holding out j 
her skinny claws, where, as usual, emeralds, amethysts, and 
diamonds kept up a glittering coruscation of colored lights. 

“ I hav'e got them, Mrs. Vavasor, said Clara, and I have I 
got something else. 

“ What do you mean?’^ croaked Mrs. Vavasor. 

Clara eagerly held out the vignette. 

“ How came this in your room? Oh, Mrs. Vavasor, donT i 
keep me in ignorance — tell me, for Heave n^s sake, what all 
this means?^^ 

Mrs. Vavasor put up the gold eyeglasses which she used : 
when it suited her to simulate near-sightedness, for her eyes 
were keen and piercing as those of a hawk, and stared at the 
vignette with a face utterly void of any expression whatever. 

“ Whose is it?’’ she questioned. , : 

“ DonT you see that it is mine? Pray, pray tell me how it j 
came into your possession! Who brought it here? Why is it j 
in your room?’^ 

“ It does look like you, now that I hold it a little nearer, 
said Mrs. Vavasor, indifferently. “ Tell you about it? How 
can I tell you about it? 1 know no more than the dead how 
the daub came where you say you found it — 

“Where I did find it, Mrs. Vavasor cried Clara, stung' 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


195 


to the quick by the insolently expressed doubt as to her verac- 
ity. 

“Unless/^ went on Mrs. Vavasor, ‘^you dropped it there 
in one of your marauding expeditions about the house, which 
I think the most likely way of accounting for the whole busi- 
ness. There, do put it down. IVe seen enough of you, both 
likeness and original. 

Clara, nervous and excited, could endure no more, but cov- 
ering her face with her hands, burst into a passion of tears, 
weeping, she scarcely knew why. 

“ Oh, Mrs. Vavasor, she sobbed, “ how dare you address 
me thus? What right have you to doubt my truth and insult 
me by word and deed?^^ 

Mrs. Vavasor sat watching her, the drawn lips stretched 
over her yellow tusks in an evil grin of satisfaction. 

Humph she muttered. “ I dare do a great deal more 
than youVe any idea of, my pert-spoken young lady! Who 
are you to question my right of addressing as I please one who 
was picked out of the gutter by my son-in-law^s foolish whim 
and Grace^s stupidity? Yes, cry on — I like it! Every tear is 
better than a coined drop of gold in my sight. I do think you 
have been prowling about Severn's Tower; I do believe you 
dropped the picture yourself in my room, and are producing 
it now to create a silly sensation; I do take you for a treacher- 
ous little impostor, who believes that because she has got a 
doll face and a soft, whining way of talking, she can mount 
above her original obscurity and degradation! Is that plain 
enough for you to understand. Miss Governess?" 

Clara had grown white and cold as marble as the old hag 
shrieked out her insulting harangue in tones shriller than the 
screech of the macaw above stairs — the source of her tears 
seemed suddenly sealed up, and the light in her eyes might 
have been a warning to desist, to one far more obtuse than 
Mrs. Vavasor. 

“It is too plain, madame," she said, in low, shuddering 
accents. “ If Mrs. Armour had not gone away this morning, 
leaving me utterly alone, I scarcely think you would have 
dared thus to address me! You know that I am poor and 
friendless — you know that I have not only pledged myself to 
remain here, but have been so unfortunate as to spend in ad- 
vance a portion of the money which I have not yet earned. 
Under these circumstances, I must remain here, in spite of 
your unwomanly vituperations, and I leave you to consider, at 
your leisure, whether you have done a generous and honorable 
thing in thus insulting me!" 


196 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


With these words she turned and left the room. 

Mrs. Vavasor looked after her with the malicious grin still 
on her lips, as she stooped to pick up the picture lying on the 
floor, and then pouring a few drops from a vial in a black 
morocco case into a gold spoon which belonged to its outfit- 
ting, swallowed them, and replaced the case in a pocket of her 
rich brocade dress. 

“ So, so!^^ she sneered, under her breath. “ I was careless 
about Sabrina’s picture. 1 mustn’t be so heedless another 
time. But what a spirit the girl has! 1 think I touched her 
once or twice — but I didn’t hit hard enough. If words won’t 
put her out of my path, something else must. Eugenie Vava- 
sor is not one to be turned from her purpose by a girl’s hypo- 
critical plaints about duty. She is in my way — and that’s 
where no mortal ever stood long. How unfortunate it is that 
Florine should have taken such an absurd fancy for her — but 
I will outmaneuver them all yet!” 


CHAPTER XXX. 

THE PORTRAIT TFT THE BLUE ROOM. 

From the presence of Mrs. Vavasor, Clara Romayne went 
straight to her own room, and throwing herself on the bed, 
buried her face among the pillows, sobbing as if her bruised 
heart must and would break at the new insults heaped upon 
her defenseless head. 

But the human heart is made of more elastic material than 
any one untried, untempted, and untortured can believe, and 
the torrent of tears proved a blessed relief to the overcharged 
cup of her grief. 

“ I have done nothing with which to reproach myself,” she 
murmured, as the tears gradually ceased to well from under 
her eyelashes. “ I gave my word to Mr. St. Severn to remain 
here for a year, and 1 promised Mrs. Armour to overlook the 
temper and caprices of her mother. 1 must keep both word 
and pledge, and I will! Florine loves me — dear, caressing 
Florine, and while there is one heart true and faithful to me, 
I surely ought not to shrink and falter from the path that lies 
before me. ” 

As she was slowly rising from her tear-drenched pillow to 
rearrange her disheveled hair, and bathe away the tell-tale 
traces of her recent grief, a soft tap came to the door, and 
Florine entered. 

She stood an instant looking with childish dismay at the 
pallid face of her governess, then, springing to her side, threw 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 19. 

both arms around Clara'^s neck, and showered soft kisses all 
over her neck, cheeks, and brow. 

I know how it isl^^ she cried, indignantly. ‘‘ Grandmam- 
ma has been tormenting you — but she knew better than to do 
it when 1 was here to protect you! Oh, if I was only present, 
l'*d pass a law to shut all venomous old women up in the 
lunatic asylum, until they could leave off going through the 
world like prickly porcupines! But you promised me you 
wouldn^t mind it, Mary dear!^’ for Florine had already 
dropped the stilted cognomen of “ Miss Smith,^^ and called 
her governess altogether by the sweet name that we have all 
learned to love as belonging to the mother of our Lord. 
‘‘ Tell me, was she ugly?^^ 

“ She was unkind, Florine, Clara answered, trying to 
force a smile to her pale lips. “ But, as you say, I promised 
to try and not mind it. Do not let us speak about it any 
more, Florine darling. As long as you love me 1 am not 
entirely without a friend at Severn^s Tower. 

“ 1 do love you,^^ cooed Florine, twining her arms closer 
round Clara^s neck, and laying her cool temples against the 
governess’s burning cheek. ‘‘ 1 do love you, Mary, so dearly 
that if you were to leave Severn’s Tower, I should run away 
and follow you. 1 had a sister once — a darling, elder sister, 
whom I never knew, for she died while 1 was a wee bit of a 
child; but if she had lived I never could have loved her any 
more than 1 do you, Mary darling. It seems as if God had 
sent you right here to fill up the lonely place in my heart, and 
if you leave me 1 shall feel the solitude a thousand times more 
than I ever did before. So let grandmamma scold and rave 
like an old witch ready to fly away on her broomstick. Now, 
Mary, don’t look at me with such big, piteous eyes; I know 
it’s very wicked to talk so, but it’s only the truth, after all. 
If my grandmamma had lived a hundred years ago, she cer- 
tainly would have been burned alive for a witch, and I hope it 
would have been a good lesson to her!” 

” Florine!” 

There, now, you can’t help laughing just a little bit, and 
I’ve accomplished my object. Come, brush out your curls — 
how 1 wish my yellow mane would lie in little twining, silky 
rings like yours — and bathe those poor, heavy eyes, and I’ll 
run down and get the keys of the upper rooms. 1 know you 
would like to go through them, for some of them are fur- 
nished magnificently. I only wish we had people enough here 
to use them! And, oh! that just reminds me of what I came 


8 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


up to tell you. Where did you suppose 1 was gone ever since 
school hours? 

“ I am sure I can not form the least idea/^ replied Clara, 
who was now standing at the mirror, bathing her eyes in 
rose-water. 

“ Well, I got the boat, and contrary to Mrs. Grandmamma^s 
express orders, rowed across to Severnsdale to see if there were 
any letters at the post-office. And there were just two, one 
for Aunt Grace, which I ordered forwarded to her address in 
Montreal; the other for grandmamma. And, oh! there^s 
such news in the last one!^^ 

“ What is it?^^ asked Clara^ for there was something infec- 
tious in the breezy light-hearted ness of the beautiful young 
girl. 

“ I read it over grand mammals shoulder; in was a letter 
from Uncle Guy, and he has returned from Switzerland, or 
wherever the outlandish place is where he has been living, and 
he will be at Severn^s Tower next week. Oh! you will find it 
won’t be the same place when Uncle Guy is here. He is so 
handsome and so nice, and grandmamma is so fond of him 
that she is almost civilized when he is here. And, besides, he 
almost always fills the Tower with company when he comes. 
You will like him so much, Mary, and, oh!” added the girl, 
clapping her plump, white hands together, “ I never thought 
of it before, but wouldn’t it be splendid if Uncle Guy were to 
fall in love with you and marry you! Then you would be my 
own darling aunt, and I would be the happiest girl in all the 
world!” 

“ Florine!” 

Clara’s face had grown pale as ashes — a set, rigid look came 
round her lips which startled even the unreflecting child. 

“ Mary!” she cried, looking wildly round for a glass of 
water, ‘‘ what is the matter?” 

“You must never sjDeak so again to me, Florine, 1 can not 
bear it,” she said, holding her hand tightly over her heart. 

“ But 1 didn’t mean anything, Mary, 1 was only joking,” 
coaxed Florine. 

“ Then, for the future, we must leave off joking. Come,” 
added Clara, turning round as if to leave the uncongenial sub- 
ject behind her, “ you are going to get the keys.” 

Florine ran away down the broad stairs, her feet echoing 
lightly along the silent corridors, and presently she returned, 
swinging from her forefinger a ring of keys which jingled a 
soft accompanimeiit to the footsteps of the two girls as they 


THE BELLE OF SABATOGA. 


199 


went together in search of the unexplored mysteries of Sev- 
ern's Tower. 

Florine St. Severn had spoken no more than the truth when 
she had alluded to the magnificence of the unused apartments, 
which were only opened when the house-maid came to sweep 
and air them, or when, as on the present occasion, the capri- 
cious little heiress took a fancy to wander through their echo- 
ing solitude. Everything was expensive and rich, although 
bearing a stamp of greater age than the outfittings of the 
lower part of the house — velvet carpets softened the footfall, 
and draperies of violet, and ruby, and golden orange shut out 
the inquisitive light of day, while dark pictures hung from 
the tinted walls, as if craving light and sunshine to vivify their 
dormant beauties. 

What a number of portraits there are here!’^ Clara ob- 
served, as she passed through the lofty suites of apartments, 
noticing with girlish interest all that was around her. 

‘‘ Grandmamma doesiiT like portraits down-stairs,^^ said 
Florine; “ she says they seem to stare at her, and make her 
nervous, so she ordered them all into these rooms. 

But, Florine — oh, what a beautiful woman 

Clara had broken off the first remark that had trembled on 
the portals of speech in a sort of thrilled admiration before a 
portrait hanging over the mantel of an apartment designated, 
from the peculiar color of its furnishing, the blue room. It 
represented a woman in the dress of twenty years ago — white 
satin, with roses in her hair, and a face whose pure, oval 
sweetness, touched with the rich, dark beauty of a tropic type, 
seemed to dazzle Clara, and haunt her like a dream. The hair, 
hanging loosely over her ivory shoulders, had a purplish sheen 
to its masses, and the eyes, black and tender, looked down 
with a pleading gaze that seemed almost that of life itself. 
Involuntarily, Clara drew dearer with clasped hands and smil- 
ing, upturned face. 

“ Oh, what a beautiful woman!’’ she repeated. “ It seems 
to me, Florine, as if I must have seen that face before.” 

‘‘I think one often imagines that about portraits,” said 
Florine, carelessly. Which is it — the miniature on ivory?” 

No, no — the large picture, with the white satin dress and 
the black, black hair.” 

Florine came across the floor, and looked eagerly up at the 
picture. 

Why, how odd!” she cried, dropping the bunch of keys 
with a jingling crash on the floor. “ Mary Smith, it looks 
like you. ” 


200 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


“ Like me?^^ Clara repeated, in surprise. 

And then the likeness, strange and subtle, and subject to 
no fixed rule of tint or feature, struck her also with a strange 
mysterious thrill. She drew back startled and almost terri- 
fied, and grew chill, as if a strange, moldy blast of air had 
penetrated the shadows of the quiet room. Had she herself, 
then, existed years before, and been depicted by the artistes 
pencil iu the antique costume of a quarter of a century ago? 

“ Who is it, Florine?^^ she asked, clinging as if for protec- 
tion to her young pupiFs arm, her eyes still riveted on the 
strange, lovely face that smiled on them from the wall, as if 
claiming companionship with their life and beauty and human 
vitality. 

“ Oh, 1 don^t know — some of the St. Severns, I suppose. 
Nobody pretends to know the names of all these portraits ex- 
cept grandmamma, and papa, and Aunt Grace. We see them 
so seldom. Shall we go on to the next room?^^ 

But the portrait with the haunting eyes, which impressed 
her with the same sensation as if she had been gazing into a 
mirror, still refused to be banished from Clara Romayne^s 
mind, and when she went down-stairs with Florine, to obey 
the summons of the six o^clock dinner-bell, she whispered her 
to ask the name of the beautiful ancestor of the St. Severns, 
whose portrait hung in the blue room. 

“ Grandmamma, began Florine, as they took their seats 
at the table, where wax candles cast a pure white luster over 
cut-glass, and frosted silver, and bouquets of wax-like japoni- 
casand odorous heliotropes, for Mrs. Vavasor was an epicurean 
by nature, as w’e have before said, and loved to surround her- 
self with the beautiful, “ Miss Smith and I have been over the 
upper rooms this afternoon, and I want you to tell me whose 
portrait that is which hangs above the mantel in the blue 
room.^^ 

Mrs. Vavasor^s yellow face seemed to grow a shade or two 
more cadaverous, as she dropped her silver fork on the deco- 
rated china plate in front of her. 

“ Portrait she stammered. “In the blue room? And 
what business have you two young things peeping and peering 
through the closed-up rooms? I shall take care to keep the 
keys myself in future. 1 don^t know whose portrait it is, and 
I'don^t care.^^ 

“Portrait, ma^am!^^ cried Mrs. Parker, who had just en- 
tered with a small decanter of some particular kind of wine 
ordered by her whimsical old mistress. “ In the blue room? 
Why, I know it as well as I know myself. It’s — ” 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


201 


“ Parker cried the old lady, suddenly catching at the 
housekeeper's arm, with a glance whose evil glitter shot like a 
flash of lightning, “ you forget yourself. 1 ordered that wine 
at once; and you stand there gossiping like any old flsh-wife.-" 

“ I beg your pardon, ma'am, 1 am sure," said the crest- 
fallen Mrs. Parker, placing the decanter before Mrs. Vavasor, 
and looking as if she would have been delighted to sink 
through the floor, or escape in any sudden way that would 
screen her from the angry glare of the old lady's eyes. 

‘‘ Yes, but, Parker, now grandmamma has got the wine," 
persisted the unconscious Florine, “ tell us who the portrait 
is? It looks exactly like Miss Smith. " 

“ As much like her as one person with big black eyes and 
hair looks like another one of the same gypsy style," snarled 
Mrs. Vavasor. “ That’s the amount of your likeness, I con- 
clude." 

“ No, but it really does, Parker," cried Florine, turning 
round in her chair to detain the old housekeeper, who was 
hurrying nervously, out of the room. “ Who is it, any way?" 

“My lady knows," said Parker, fumbling at her apron- 
strings, and looking at Mrs. Vavasor. “ It's — " 

“ It's Barbara St. Severn, who died in England eighty odd 
years ago — that's who it is, if you insist on knowing; but 1 
can't see how it concerns you," curtly answered Mrs. Vavasor. 

“ Why, grandmamma," laughed Florine, “ I suppose 1 
have a right to know the names of my own ancestresses. But 
I think you must be mistaken — the costume here is not that 
of the other portraits of eighty years ago. It is much more 
modern." 

“ As if there was anything modern or ancient about white 
satin and roses," sneered Mrs. Vavasor. 

“ Well, she's a very lovely woman, any way, grandmamma/ 
answered Florine, valiantly. “lam quite proud to have had 
such a beautiful foremother." 

“ People's ideas differ about beauty," said Mrs. Vavasor, 
dryly. “ I think black eyes and hair the vulgarest and most 
common style of good looks." 

Florine was silent, but she pressed Clara's hand under the 
table, a mute token of her loving sympathy. 

“ Parker," said the old lady, when that respectable person- 
age came for her nightly audience before the retiring of the 
queen dowager at Severn's Tower, “ you'll have to be a little 
more careful with your tongue. One more mistake, and you 
leave Severn's Tower I" 


202 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


“ Yes, my lady, I^il take care,^^ faltered the humiliated 
housekeeper. “ It was only a slip of the tongue.^" 

“ Well,"" said Mrs. Vavasor, sharply, “ be sure it doesn"t 
occur again."" 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

A HEW ARRIVAL. 

“ Miss Smith, my uncle, Mr. Vavasor!"" 

Clara had just returned from a ramble through the wood by 
the river, her lovely silken hair disheveled, her cheeks crim- 
soned with the healthful exercise, and her simple straw hat 
wreathed with scarlet leaves and the purple stars of the wild 
aster, and, opening the door of the morning-room, had unex- 
pectedly encountered Mrs. Vavasor and Florine in company 
with a handsome gentleman, whose resemblance to her pupil 
strongly hinted at near relationship. Embarrassed and con- 
fused, she had been about to withdraw, when Florine sprung 
forward, and seizing her arm, spoke a few smiling words of 
introduction, and Guy Vavasor bowed low, struck with her 
wonderful beauty, as were all strangers, at first 

“Miss Smith, sir, is a fine actress,’" said Mrs. Vavasor, 
spitefully, as she saw the look of admiration that Guy could 
not repress. “ She has gotten herself up en tableau for the 
occasion as a rustic flower-girl. I congratulate you on your 
success. Miss Smithers. When my son Guy knows you as 
well as we do he will learn to be prepared for these pretty lit- 
tle surprises."" 

Clara made no rejoinder, but began to arrange her flowers 
in a vase of water brought to her by Florine, and the old lady 
went out of the room, summoned by Parker, while Guy, hav- 
ing by this time recovered his presence of mind, drew near, 
and commenced a conversation with the beautiful young gov- 
erness, while Florine, nestling close to his side, with evident 
pride in his good looks and easy grace, chimed gayly in from 
time to time. 

“ Well, Uncle Guy,"" she cried, when Miss Smith had finally 
gone up to her room to prepare for dinner, “ what do you 
think of my new governess?"" 

“ I think she is the most beautiful creature I ever saw in 
my life,"" Mr. Vavasor answered, enthusiastically. 

“ I knew you would say so,"" said Florine, clapping her 
hands. “ And I do love her so dearly. Uncle Guy!"" 

“So the wild bird is tamed at last!’" said Mr. Vavasor, 
stroking down Florine’s golden hair. “'What spell has she. 


THI: BELLE OF SAEATOGA. 


m 


used to conquer the rebellious elf who has heretofore made the 
reign of governesses at Severn^s Tower a derision and a ter- 
ror? Really, this is almost equal to Van Amburgh or Rarey!^^ 

‘‘ Spell— I donT know anything about spells, laughed 
Flo fine; “but I do know that I love her, and she loves me, 
and we’re the happiest pair in the wide world, in spite of 
grandmamma!” 

“ How do you mean, in spite of her?” 

“ Oh, she hates poor Mary, and she is as insulting and cross 
with her as possible. If Mary hadn’t the temper of an angel, 
grandmamma would have driven her away long ago!” 

Guy Vavasor looked grave. 

“ This must not be,” he said, contracting his handsome 
brows. “ My mother must learn to control her tongue and 
temper where a helpless young dependent is concerned. / will 
not allow any such unequal warfare!” 

“ That’s what 1 said all along !’^ cried Florine. “ If papa 
were here, or even Aunt Grace— but, you see, grandmamma 
never pays any attention to me, and — ” 

“But she will to me, 1 think,” quietly interrupted Mr. 
Vavasor. “ Come, Florine, you must show me the improve- 
ments about the grounds before tiiniier. Get your bonnet, or 
your hat, or whatever you girls call those little round things 
made of a piece of lace and a bird’s wing, and there will be 
plenty of time. ” 

When Clara Romayne reached her own apartment she 
found it strangely rifled and transformed. The furniture had 
been moved round and altered, her own little belongings had 
utterly vanished, and in the little easy-chair old Mrs. Vavasor 
sat, a rich India shawl drawn round her distorted shoulders, 
and her turban of scarlet silk and gold nodding with the 
palsied motion of her head, while with shrill accents and out- 
stretched diamond-circled finger she directed a posse consisting 
of Mrs. Parker and Agnes the house-maid who were busily 
working under her orders. 

Clara looked about her in bewilderment. At first it oc- 
curred to her that she must have mistaken the room; but no 
— there was the white and crimson carpet, the little curtained 
alcove and the very view of the blue shining river from the 
open window. She stopped and gazed inquiringly at Mrs. 
Vavasor as if to ask for some explanation of this very usual 
procedure. 

“ Oh, it’s you, is it. Miss Simpson?” said the old lady. 
“Now then, Agnes, you stupid thing — in the corner beyond, 
I tell you. I want this room for my son,” she added, to 


204 


THE BELLE OF SAEATOGA. 


Clara; “ it^s the one he has always occupied when at home 
and Fve no idea of his being turned out of it by any governess 
alive. So Vve just sent your things to the tower — there is a 
very comfortable room there in the second story, and if you 
doii^t like it why of course you’re not obliged to stay at Sev- 
ern’s Tower.” 

“ I dare say I shall be pleased with it, madame,” Clara said, 
resolved never to lose her temper, however provoking the old 
creature might be. “ Can I do anything to help you here? 
Had 1 known that I was occupying Mr. Vavasor’s room, 1 
would myself have oflered to exchange. ” 

“ It makes no difference whether you would or not,” 
snapped Mrs. Vavasor. ‘‘No, you can’t do anything except 
to take yourself out of the way as fast as possible.” 

1 will obey you at once, Mrs. Vavasor, if Agnes will show 
me the way to the apartment you design for my future use,” 
answered Clara, gently. 

“ Agnes will do nothing of the sort,” said Mrs. Vavasor, as 
the girl turned to accompany the governess. “ Stay where 
you are, Agnes. Miss Sither’s big eyes weren’t given to her for 
nothing; it’s a pity if she can’t find her own way by broad 
daylight, after having ransacked the whole place with that 
rattle-brain of a Florine.” 

Clara smiled. 

‘‘ We have never visited the tower,” she said, “ but I dare 
say 1 can find it.” 

“ It’s easy found, miss,” said Agnes, who, in common with 
all the other servants at Severn’s Tower, would have done 
anything in the world to oblige the pretty governess. “Just 
go to the end of the hall, and turn to your right, and it’s the 
second door beyond, studded full of big brass nails.” 

“ Agnes, hold your tongue!” interrupted Mrs. Vavasor. 
“ If you don’t learn in future to mind your own business. I’ll 
have you discharged, you meddling, bold-spoken hussy!” 

Agnes cowered back to her work, and Clara, obeying the 
good-natured girl’s directions, soon found herself in the pretty, 
awning-sheltered bridge which Florine had told her of, and 
which was plainly visible from the outside grounds of Severn’s 
Tower. 

Crossing this bridge, she found herself in a large vestibule, 
or hall, beyond which a second passage led to an octagonally 
shaped apartment, hung with pale-blue chintz, with China 
matting on the floor, and bamboo furniture, while a pretty 
little single bed occupied the further angle. 

There was a fire-place in the room, where a fire had been 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


205 


hastily kindled, and was just beginning to give out a little 
heat, while her own few possessions were thrown on the floor, 
and her trunk occupied the middle of the room. 

Cjara could not help shedding a few natural tears at the 
humiliating and insulting treatment to which she was subject- 
ed, but she set herself diligently to work to reduce this chaotic 
confusion of dresses, portfolios, books, bonnets, and slippers 
to somethirJg nearer resembling order, and soon forgot Mrs. 
Vavasor ^s unkindness in enjoying the lovely view from the 
tower windows. 

As she stood there, Florine and Guy Vavasor, coming up 
from the direction of the river, glanced toward the tower, and 
Florine recognized her governess, waving her handkerchief 
gayly to her. 

“ Mary,^^ said Florine, when about an hour afterward they 
met at dinner, “ how did you find your way to the little room 
in the tower where 1 used to sleep last August?^’ 

It is my room now/’ said Clara, smiling. I am to be 
domiciled there for the future, 1 believe.” 

“ But why did you leave the west room?” questioned 
Florine. 

“ 1 believe it was required for some other use,” said Clara, 
somewhat embarrassed. 

The west room? Why, surely, that is my room!” said 
Guy Vavasor, who had been listening to what passed. “ I 
hope. Miss Smith, you have not been put to the inconvenience 
of removing on my account.” 

“ It was no inconvenience, I assure you,” said Clara, quiet- 
ly. ‘‘ In fact, I think I rather prefer my new quarters.” 

“ But you will be very lonely there.” 

“ I am not afraid of solitude,” she answered. 

“ Mother, ” said Mr. Vavasor, turning to the grotesque 
figure at the head of the table, “ why did you not give me 
some other room? lam grieved to have, however unwillingly, 
disturbed Miss Smith.” 

Mrs. Vavasor laughed a harsh, grating laugh. 

I am not yet aware,” she answered, rudely, ‘‘ that all the 
arrangements of Severn’s Tower are to be altered to please a 
mere governess. If Miss Smith is displeased with her treat- 
ment she can leave us at any time she pleases!” 

The crimson color fiooded Clara’s whole face. Guy Vava- 
sor’s eyes flashed. 

“ Mother,” he said, ‘‘ you are not yet the mistress of Sev- 
ern’s Tower, although you have been allowed for some years 
to make it your home. My brother Eustace would scarcely 


THE BELLE OF SABATOGA. 


^06 

tolerate this manner toward a young lady whom he has select- 
ed to be the companion and instructress of his daughter. If 
you are not a little more guarded in future, I shall be com- 51 
pelled to inform him of your lack of courtesy/^ ^ 

Mrs. Vavasor turned yellow; her eyes sparkled with a 
malevolent glitter, but she stood in awe of her handsome son, 
scarcely less than of Eustace St. Severn, whose will, though 
seldom asserted, was always law at the Tower, and she vent- 
ured on no immediate reply. Clara, pitying her rage and 
mortification, made some observation to Florine on the beauty 
of the opposite shores of the Hudson Eiver, now dressed in 
their autumn robes of gold, and scarlet, and russet-brown, 
and conversation was again resumed, 

That evening was pleasanter than any Clara had yet passed 
at Severn’s Tower. Guy Vavasor sat with them, and his live- 
ly chat, pleasant reminiscences of travel, and entertaining 
anecdotes passed away the hours as if by magic. Drawn out 
by his skillful lead, Clara became like a new creature; her 
eyes shone softly, her shy, graceful manner, robbed of its 
outer frost of embarrassment, became charming and fascinat- 
ing as it had been of old; her sweet laugh echoed Florine’s 
heartier mirth, and Guy Vavasor found himself becoming 
more and more interested in the beautiful girl, who was ap- 
parently almost as much of a child as Florine herself. 

‘‘ By Jove!” he thought, as he sat smoking his cigar at 
night, before the blazing fire in the little room which Clara 
had so recently occupied, “ I’ve always fancied myself inclined 
to be aristocratic, but if this sort of thing goes on as it has 
commenced. I’m in a fair way, so far as I can reasonably con- 
jecture, of falling in love with a governess! Shade of beauti- 
ful Venus! what eyes she has — real Andalusian, with their 
perfectly arched brows and long lashes that veil them like a 
shadow! And then her skin — satin could not be softer — and 
her hair is almost purple in its jet blackness. Her name 
ought never to be Smith. I wonder how Vavasor — pshaw! 
what an arrant donkey I am making of myself! I know I 
shall dream about her to-night!” 

And Guy Vavasor did dream about Clara Eomayne until 
the morning light chased the lurking shadows from his room. 
And then he rose and dressed himself, eager once more to meet 
the beautiful girl with the Andalusian eyes. 

“ Guy,” said his mother to him a day or two after, “ you 
are making a fool of yourself about that Simpson girl.” 

“ Am I, ma’am?” laughed Mr. Vavasor. “ Well, mother. 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 207 

I^m sure she would make an excellent excuse for folly in any 
man/"' 

“ Humph sneered Mrs. Vavasor, ‘^a mere black-eyed 
doll!^^ 

“ A lovely creature, said Guy, coloring as he spoke, 
‘‘ whose beauty is equaled by her sense and intellect. I have 
never in all my travels seen any one that equaled herl^^ 

^^Go on,^^ ironically urged Mrs. Vavasor. “I suppose 
you^ll be making her a proposal of marriage next!^^ 

Guy rose and began pacing up and down the room, while 
his mother’s greenish-gray eyes watched his every motion with 
steady ken. 

“ I’ve hardly reached that point as yet,” he said, speaking 
as if he fain would treat the subject as a jest. ‘‘ What would 
you say to it, mother, if I were seriously to contemplate the 
idea?” 

‘‘ This,” answered Mrs. Vavasor, emphatically, “ that if 
you are such an egregious fool as to lose your wisdom and com- 
mon sense at the sparkle of a pair of bright eyes, and the 
simper of a sweet voice — of these eyes and this voice — you had 
better be cold and stiff in your grave! I would rather follow 
your coffin, Guy, son of my old age, and dearest cherished of 
all my children though you are, than see you married to that 
girl ! And — mark my words — if you do lose sight of all sanity 
sufficiently to ask her to become your wife, you will repent it 
as man never repented a rash deed! I say, Guy, you had bet- 
ter be buried ten feet deep!” 

Her voice had risen almost into a shriek, as she grew in 
earnestness. Guy could not help being impressed, spite of 
himself, by her manner. 

I do not comprehend you, mother,” he said. 

“ But you will one day.” 

And further than that Mrs. Vavasor would not explain her- 
self; but from that moment she hated Clara Eomayne with a 
more deadly and dangerous venom than ever. 

Guy Vavasor, however, like most young men of ardent nat- 
ure and chivalrous training, once interested in youth, beauty, 
and loveliness, became more and more deeply infatuated as 
the days went on. 

Florine watched the two with a demure and mischievous 
sort of interest, hoping within herself that Uncle Guy would 
marry her pretty governess. But she never spoke upon the 
topic, and old Mrs. Vavasor wandered about the house like an 
unquiet ghost, dissatisfied with everybody and everything, yet 


^08 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


not venturing to openly express her wraths since the obnox- 
ious governess was now protected by Guy^s open partisanship. 

And Clara herself? Entirely unconscious whither matters 
were tending, she enjoyed the perfect rest and peace of the 
household as much as her wounded and widowed heart was 
capable of enjoying anything, and allowed herself to float 
serenely on with the current, never for a moment dreaming 
how fatally near she was drawing to the rapids where happi- 
ness, nay, even reason itself are so often wrecked. 

She had been sitting one night, late into the silver glory of 
the October full moon, in the bay window of the library, with 
Guy Vavasor at her side, talking in low, impassioned accents 
on the various topics which he had learned, from experience, 
were interesting to her. 

Elorine had retired early to her room, fatigued by a long 
boating excursion with her uncle and Miss Smith; but Mrs. 
Vavasor hobbled every now and then into the room on some 
trivial pretext, casting baleful glances on the two young peo- 
ple, and creeping out again as the serpent might have writhed 
his way out of the bowers of paradise when his fell work was 
done. 

“ It must be stopped she muttered to herself, wiping her 
dry lips upon a delicate linen-cambric pocket-handkerchief; 
‘‘ she has had her day of grace, and she has let it pass by like 
an idle wind. Now let her look out for herself. I’ve made up 
my mind, and Eugenie Vavasor’s will never yet was baffled!” 

She started like a conspirator as she heard their voices in 
the hall. 

I am ashamed to have kept you up so late. Miss Smith,” 
said Guy, in a voice of self-reproach; “but you knowhow 
difficult it is to repress my unfortunate tongue.” 

“It is not so very late,” Clara’s softly modulated tones 
reply; “ but my head aches very severaly.” 

“Your head! Then will you allow me to constitute my- 
self your physician? I have some drops which I obtained of a 
learned physician at Berne, whose influence has never failed 
me yet in cases of headache. You will indulge me by trying 
their effect. I will bring them in a moment.” 

Clara’s hesitation was construed by Vavasor into consent, 
for he hurried away, and presently returned with a goblet half 
filled with water. 

“ I have poured them into this,” he said. “You are to 
drink half of it before you retire to-night, the other half the 
first thing on rising in the morning; and if you do not meet 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 209 

me at breakfast entirely free from pain 1 will promise to ab- 
jure all faith in my learned friend at Berne. 

And with a smiling ‘‘ good-night/^ they parted, Clara going 
to her own room with the precious goblet, and Guy Vavasor 
lingering to dream just a little longer over the beautiful castle 
en Es'pagne^ whose glittering foundations were already begin- 
ning to rise up in his mind — Lovers Castle, and a dark-eyed 
girl its queen and royal mistress. With a step noiseless as 
t^hat of the tigress as she steals over the velvet turf of some 
lonely thicket of the East, Mrs. Vavasor crept upstairs to her 
own apartment, her face full of a new and appalling expres- 
sion. 

The lights were burning in the silver sconces on either side 
of the full-length mirror, and the ceiling of crimson glass, no 
longer illumiued by the meridian light of day, seemed like a 
blood-red firmament brooding overhead, while the fire, fed 
with some aromatic wood, crackled softly on the marble 
hearth. The macaw, roused from its slumbers, watched her 
with its blinking, emerald eye, and the monkey, nodding on 
his perch, chattered a drowsy recognition as she passed him. 

Mrs. Vavasor went straight to her secretary, and unlocking 
its lower compartment, took out a small rosewood box filled 
with variously labeled bottles. One of them she selected, and 
examining its opaque contents, dropped it into her pocket, re- 
turning the rest to the exact spot whence she had taken them, 
and relocking the secretary. 

Then she sat down in front of the fire and remained there, 
quite motionless, save for the twitching play of the muscles 
round her mouth, and the palsied tremble of her hand, for 
nearly half ari hour, her eyes fixed intently on the burning 
log, and a deadly yellow deepening on her cheek. 

And well might it deepen, for never before in all the course 
of her ambitious and sinful life — for sinful and ambitious it 
had been in no ordinary degree — had Mrs. Vavasor deliber- 
ately contemplated a crime so dreadful as that of murder. 


CHAPTEK XXXII. 

MRS. VAYASOR IS DISAPPOINTED. 

At length the hideous old crone started up, roused, it would 
seem, by the silver tone of a clock on the mantel striking one. 

“ She has brought it on herself, she muttered, as with a 
small silver lamp in her hand she hurried through the car- 
peted corridors; “ she has brought in on herself; 1 am not to 


210 


THE BELLE OF SAKATOGA. 


blame. I would have sent her away, but neither scorn nor 
insult would drive her. Let her reap the consequences she 
herself has sown. And, after all, what does it matter? It is 
but a human life, more or less.^^ 

Clara Eomayne^s slumbers had been brief and restless that 
night, although, faithful to her pronvise, she had drunk one 
half the healing potion contained in the goblet given her by 
Guy Vavasor. The moonlight, streaming softly into her 
room, made her restless and wakeful, and she was just about 
to rise to close the shutters, and exclude the dreamy, enchant- 
ed light, when a singular noise, like the rattling of a key in 
her room door aroused her. 

She was always in the habit of sleeping with her door locked 
since she had been an inmate of the solitary and isolated 
tower; but now it seemed as if the lock revolved backward, 
softly, in spite of all the security afforded it by its wards and 
sockets, and shrinking behind the soft white draperies of her 
couch, Clara lay with ashen pale cheek and beating heart, ap- 
prehensive of some vague horror — she herself scarcely knew 
what. 

She felt almost relieved as she saw, beneath the drooping 
curtain of her long lashes, that it was only Mrs. Vavasor mov- 
ing noiselessly, and carrying in one hand her small silver 
hand-lamp, whose frosted chains hung down like a shining 
fringe. First the old woman came to her bedside, and holding 
the light close to her eyes, moved it back and forth as if to 
make sure that she was asleep. How Clara blessed the strong 
self-control that she had learned to acquire in the vicissitudes 
of her varying life as she lay there motionless, and breathing 
the soft, regular respirations of one wrapped in balmy slum- 
ber. Yet, at that self-same moment ‘the blood grew chill in 
her veins, and she almost feared that Mrs. Vavasor would hear 
the wild beating of her heart. 

She might have saved herself the apprehension, for the old . 
woman turned away as if satisfied with the result of her inves- 
tigation, and glided softly across the room to the table on 
which stood the half-emptied goblet. With one more glance 
over her shoulder to the bed, as if to reassure herself that the 
slumberer had not yet awakened, she drew from her pocket 
the silver-topped vial, and slowly dropped into the crystal-clear 
contents of the goblet an infusion from its narrow neck. For 
an instant a cloudy film disturbed the water, then it resumed 
its original transparency as if the subtle liquid, whatever it 
was, had thoroughly mingled itself with the other; and Mrs. 
Vavasor, with a shuddering sigh, returned the vial to her 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 2ll 

pocket and crept out of the room without once turning her 
head to look at the still figure on the bed. 

No sooner had her footsteps died away on the vestibule which 
led to the little bridge than Clara sprung up, and hastening 
to the door, examined its fastenings. To her surprise, it was 
apparently locked on the inside. 

Was this magic? Or did Mrs. Vavasor actually possess the 
witch-like faculty of passing through a key-hole with the key 
inside of it? For, in her bewilderment, Clara had not ob- 
served a small circular key-hole at the side, which controlled 
the whole lock from the outside. With the frenzy of desper- 
ate terror, she heaped chairs, tables, and stands against the 
door, and not until she had thoroughly barricaded the en- 
trance to the best of her ability, did she venture to desist. 
Then, hurrying to the table as pale as the white robe that she 
wore, she examined the fluid in the goblet. 

Apparently it was quite colorless and scentless, as if it had 
assimilated itself entirely with the water — but Clara looked at 
it with the sickening certaint}?" that death lurked within its 
crystal contents. She could have rendered no logical reason 
for the certainty which had taken possession of her, yet she 
knew that she was not mistaken. If she drained that goblet, 
her life would not be worth five minutes^ purchase. 

One minute she stood musing upon the awful peril which 
seemed to encircle her; then opening the window nearest her, 
she threw the contents of the goblet out among the boughs of 
the cedars below and replaced it on the table with a hand that 
trembled as if she had been stricken with palsy. 

Her next impulse, as unconscious as the very breath she 
drew, was to fall on her knees, and with clasped hands and 
parted lips, to pray for aid and shelter from the dangers that 
encompassed her, crying out from the depths of her heart to 
Him who sent His disciples once out into the cruel world as 
lambs among wolves! 

The agony of muttered supplication brought its own blessed 
relief, and with a heart strangely soothed and quieted she rose 
once more to her feet, and crept into her bed, falling asleep 
as sweetly as if she had been a little child rocked to slumber 
with a mother^s protecting presence close beside her. 

Mrs. Vavasor, meanwhile, returned to her room as quietly 
as she had left it, but not to sleep. All the night long she sat 
before the fire of burning logs which smoldered itself slowly 
away into a mass of ruby-red embers, thinking over what she 
had done. Not with remorse — her cold, callous nature knew 
no such sensation as that — but with a sort of exulting terror. 


212 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


The girl whom she so hated would be out of her way at last — 
out of her way forever. Guy would be safe from the fatal 
fascination of the beautiful governess. Florine^s divided heart 
would return with new allegiance to herself, when once she 
could have the willful child entirely to herself. All would be 
smooth and safe again in the deadly path she was treading, 
and every one of these things would be accomplished by the 
potent agency of these few drops that had glittered like pearls 
in Guy’s reviving draught! 

The morning came dull and rainy, a sad contrast to the 
previous night, with a mournful east wind sighing through 
the autumn-tinted foliage, and Mrs. Vavasor, eagerly count- 
ing the hours told off by the little clock, rejoiced when the 
time came to go down to the usual family breakfast. True, 
she had kept vigil all the night, but it was a thing she was ac- 
customed to, and there was no tell-tale color to fade away from 
her parchment-like cheeks, no youthful brilliance to leave her 
basilisk eyes. She had changed her dress of the evening be- 
fore for a crimson satin rode de mating and wrapping around 
her a shawl of some fleecy material, dyed of the same rich 
color, she went down-stairs. 

Guy Vavasor was waiting in the breakfast-room, and Florine 
hung caressingly on his arm. They both saluted her as usual, 
and then Guy asked: 

“ Where is Miss Smith? She has not made her appearance 
this morning, although she is usually the earliest bird in our 
flock,’’ 

Mrs. Vavasor’s hand shook strangely as she busied herself 
in sorting out the dainty cups and saucers of antique egg- 
shell china, but she did not reply. 

ITl run and call her,” volunteered Florine, with a move- 
ment toward the door. 

“ Florine!” exclaimed her grandmother, with a voice whose 
faltering shrillness brought the girl to a dead stop, “ I desire 
you will remain where you are. Agnes,” to the house-maid 
who had entered to put fresh coal upon the grate fire, “ go 
and tell the governess that breakfast waits. ” 

Agnes obeyed, and Florine, summoned by the old lady’s 
imperative order, came unwillingly to her seat. 

A brief pause ensued; to Mrs. Vavasor it seemed as if every 
second were an age, until the servant should rush in, pale and 
horror-stricken, to tell of the ghastly corpse which alone re- 
mained of the beautiful governess’s fatal charms. 

^ It strikes me Miss Smith is a long time coming,” care- 


THE BELLE OE SARATOGA. 213 

lessly observed Guy, as he seated himself opposite to his 
mother, 

Mrs. Vavasor shuddered slightly — there was something that 
grated strangely on her ears in this way of speaking of one 
who had passed far beyond the pales of earthly coming or 
going. 

The cup that she was lifting to her lips fell from her un- 
nerved fingers, and broke into shattered fragments, as the 
door behind her slowly opened. 

She scarcely dared turn her head, but listened breathlessly. 

Surely that quiet, soft footfall was strangely unlike the hur- 
ried tread of the messenger of wof ul tidings — and Guy^s face 
opposite, into which she gazed wildly to read the horror paint- 
ed there, was marvelously unruffled. 

The next instant the governess, gliding gracefully past her 
with her usual morning salutation, took her place, facing 
Florine, and Mrs. Vavasor sunk back into her chair with a 
long breath of rage, disappointment, and despair. 

Did the girl bear a charmed life? Had she some secret 
power of escaping unharmed from the effects of a potion which 
would have killed Hercules himself? 

“ You look pale this morning, Miss Smith, said Guy, as 
he helped her bountifully to the viands before him. “ Did 
not my prescription banish that torturing head ache ?^^ 

It might have done so, perhaps, had I taken it,’’ Clara 
answered, never raising her eyes from her plate. “ Indeed, I 
did, last night, but this morning I fancied that the liquid had 
some peculiar odor which sickened me, so I administered it to 
the cedar boughs outside my window. 

“ 1 shall not act Esculapius for you again, said Guy, half 
laughing, half annoyed, while Mrs. Vavasor, who had listened 
breathlessly to the careless conversation, cursed the giiTs 
I fastidious sense of smell in her heart. 

“I have failed this once,"’ she thought, “ for she has the 
1 senses of a greyhound; but there are more ways than one of 
I effecting my purpose, and of this she may rest assured — her 
! doom is sealed!” 

And it was not entirely Clara’s imagination which invested 
Mrs. Vavasor’s face with a deadlier expression of hatred than 
ever, when she happened to meet her glance. 

Contrary to all of their expectations, the storm cleared off 
brilliantly soon after breakfast. 

The morning was spent by Guy in boating — by Florine and 
her governess in their usual tasks, which Clara rigorously in- 
sisted in prosecuting in spite of Florine’s piteous entreaties to 


214 


THE BELLE OE SARATOGA. 


be allowed to join her uncle in the little boat, which looked so 
tempting as it glanced in and out among the overhanging 
boughs at the northern end of the island. 

But she received her reward finally, for Guy insisted on her 
practicing being excused for the afternoon. 

‘‘For IVe found the prettiest little cove just beyond the 
pine opposite,^^ he said, “ and Florine must come and sketch 
the old beech-tree that hangs over the water. And of course 
I can't undertake the responsibility of so unmanageable a 
sprite unless Miss Smith is along to control her." 

“ You’ll come, Mary, won’t you?’’ coaxed Florine, pausing 
in her dancing flight around the room to throw her arms 
fondly round Clara’s slender waist. “ I shall not be half so 
happy without you!’’ 

“ Yes, I will come,’’ assented Clara, whose fancy went out 
with yearnings indescribable toward the stillness of the river 
and the colored shadows of the wooded shores that seemed to 
lie like glowing pictures upon its surface. “ It will be good 
for us both, Florine!’’ 

She blushed in spite of herself when her eyes met Guy’s look 
of delighted gratitude as she spoke the words. 

Surely he would not be foolish enough to fancy that she 
meant any special grace to him by acquiescing in Florine’s 
simple little plan of pleasure. 

Mrs. Vavasor followed Guy out of the room as he went to 
see about the preparation of the larger boat, for he had been 
rowing a mere little wherry all the morning, and clutched at 
his sleeve as they stood on the stone porch outside. 

“ Guy, are you determined to ruin yourself and all of us, 
for the sake of a pretty face?’’ she whispered, hoarsely. 

“ You must put your question differently if you want an 
answer, mother,’’ he replied, a little sternly. 

“ I mean, do you intend to let this girl run away with your 
heart, like any mad school-boy?’’ 

“Mother,’’ he answered, looking her full in the face, “I 
am a grown man and fully able to judge and resolve for my- 
self. Since you wish to know my intentions, I have no objec- 
tion to reveal them to you. 1 love Miss Smith, and I intend, 
if possible, to woo and win her for my wife. Now, may I 
request of you the favor of no further interference in my 
affairs?’’ 

“Guy, I have warned you!’’ 

“ And I cast aside your warnings as utterly useless.’’ 

“ You will go on?’’ 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


215 


“ Very well/^ answered Mrs. Vavasor, in a voice that sound- 
ed hollow and strange. Upon your own head, then, be the 
consequences, whatever shape they may take!^’ 

“ 1 am willing to brave them,'’^ the young man answered, 
lightly, as he strode down the garden path toward the boat- 
house. 

The afternoon sunshine lay with soft brilliance on the glassy 
ripples of the broad river, half an hour hour subsequently, as 
Mrs. Vavasor stood in the bay-window watching the boat shoot 
swiftly out from its moorings, with Florine and Clara side by 
side in its center, and Guy bending gracefully to the oars. 

“ It could scarcely be managed better for my plans,^^ she 
thought, with a bitter smile on her drawn lips. Idiots! they 
know not what they do when they trifle with me! 1 shall have 
the whole afternoon to myself, and it will go hard but what 
1^11 improve it. She will scarcely escape me now. Make the 
most of your holiday, my governess friend— look your last 
upon earth and sky — for you will never see another day^s sun- 
shine!^’ 


CHAPTER XXXIll. 

\ A DECLARATION OF LOVE. 

|| It was nearly dark when the three young voyagers returned, 
I rosy with exercise and full of merry allusions to the afternoon 
' they had passed, but Mrs- Vavasor turned sharply away when 
Florine would fain have shown her the rough sketch she had 
made of the old beech-tree that overhung the cove. 

! “I want nothing to do with your nonsense,” she said, 
sharply. If you’re too young and foolish to see that you are 
being used as a mask to hide the silly flirting of others, I am 
not!” 

“Oh, grandmamma!” cried Florine, aghast, “if Miss 
Smith had heard you! I am so glad she is gone upstairs!” 

“It is perfectly immaterial to me whether she hears or 
not,” shortly answered the old lady. “ Go and tell Parker it 
is high time dinner was on the table.” 

Florine anticipated what she phrased “ a stormy time of 
it ” at the dinner-table, but to her surprise and delight, as 
well as all concerned, Mrs. Vavasor was unusually gracious 
and pleasant, even condescending to address the governess in 
terms of ordinary civility, and not once checking Florine or 
hurling sarcasms at Guy. 

“ I believe the millennium is coming,” audaciously whis- 
pered Florine to her uncle, as Mrs. Vavasor^ announcing that 


21Q 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


she was very much fatigued, retired at once to her own room; 
while Guy hoped most devoutly in his heart that she had, 
after mature deliberation, concluded to make the best of his 
contemplated wooing. 

For with every hour and every moment Guy Vavasor was 
becoming more hopelessly entangled in the meshes of the lit- 
tle blind god. 

Clara herself was beginning to suspect it, and with a strange 
feeling, as if every tender word from him were a desecration of 
the holy affection shrined upon the altar of her heart to the 
memory to which she was resolved to live and die scrupulously 
faithful, she shrunk from his atteiitions, resolved in future to 
let him see plainly how totally unacceptable to her they were. 
Now she was determined there should be no delay. 

“You will come out in the garden a little while this even- 
ing?’^ pleaded Guy, when Clara rose to follow Florine from 
the room, after the lamps were lighted, the luster softened by 
shades of colored glass. “ See how lovely the moonlight is — 
and the air is soft as June. It^s a shame to let these glorious 
evenings go by unimproved. 

“ Not to-night,^^ Clara answered, coldly, “ 1 am tired, and 
need repose. 

“ Eest here, then, upon the sofa. Why need you hurry 
away?’^ urged Guy, in tenderly caressing accents. 

“ You must excuse me, indeed,’^ said Clara, still more 
frigidly. “ I think Florine is calling me.’^ 

And the next moment Mr. Vavasor found himself alone. 

“ What does this mean?"^ he muttered. “ My mother must . 
have been tampering with her. But I will not be evaded thus 
another time. She shall tell me whether 1 have any reason to , 
hope, or whether — j 

But, brave man though he was, Guy Vavasor could hardly J 
face the latter alternative, so he closed his eyes resolutely on j 
its possibility, and left the sentence unfinished. j 

Restless and feverish, he found it impossible to compose his ; 
mind in reading, although he took up a book and turned its ’ 
pages hurriedly over, and after pacing a few times up and 
down the stone flagging in front of the porch steps, and con- 
sulting his watch, to find, to his annoyance, that it was only 
ten o'’ clock, he strode down the path to the boat-house, and 
plunging into the smallest craft, pulled himself by a few rapid 
strokes out into the placid current of the stream. 

“ I must be doing something,^^ he thought, “and a ten- 
mile row will do me good.^^ 

It was a little past midnight when Mrs. Vavasor issued from 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


217 


the side door leadiug toward the north, wrapped in a black 
shawl which concealed her from head to foot. Looking from 
side to side, and speaking a soothing word to the huge dog, 
which came round the corner muttering a low growl, she 
neared a spot from which she drew a huge cedar bough, lying 
close up against the foundation of the tower, as if it had fallen 
from one of the trees close by, thus revealing a hollow en- 
trance or subterranean passage below, which was full of light 
logs, sticks, and paper stuffed in between the interstices," as if 
preparations had been made for some gigantic bonfire. 
Igniting a match which she held ready in her hand, she threw 
it among the combustible heaps, and hurriedly drawing the 
cedar boughs still further back, as if to give a more complete 
current of air, she hastened back to the door whence she had 
come, dragging the dog into the hall after her by his collar, 
and imperatively hushing his sullen growls. 

“ Now, I am safe enough,^^ she murmured, listening with a 
triumphant leer for the crackle of the rising flames. “ The 
servants are on the other shore, celebrating old Mrs. Eiley^s 
wake, all except old Peter, who is purblind and stone deaf — 
Florine is locked into her room where she always sleeps sound- 
ly enough — I took care to turn the key on the outside before 1 
came out — and Guy, thank goodness, is far enough away. 
Yes, I think I am safe now.^^ 

She walked composedly back to her own room, glancing out 
through a side window as she went, and sat down with a book 
in her hand as composedly as if the octagon structure from 
which Severrffs Tower took its name were not already burst- 
ing out into a wreathed mass of forked flames, licking the 
foundations of the tower like the red tongue of some venom- 
ous reptile rejoicing over its prey. 

And she smiled to remember that Clara Komayne^s room 
was the only inhabited apartment in the tower, shut off from 
all help or succor as totally as if it were in a desert isle, and 
that she herself had locked the door leading from the tower 
to the little bridge, bolting it below with double bolts, so that 
the strength of a damson would scarce avail against its oaken 
panels! The house might scorch a little; let it! It was solid 
stone, unlike the fragile material of which the tower was built, 
and could sustain no serious harm — and the tower had always 
been an eye-sore to those who pretended to architectural taste. 
As she leisurely pondered these things as Lucretia Borgia of 
old might have sat awaiting the development of some one of 
her fiendish schemes, the clock struck one. 

At tl^e same- moment a furious rapping was heard at the 


218 THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 

outer door, accompanied by shouts demanding entrance. Mrs. 
Vavasor listened a moment. 

“ It is Guy/^ she said. “ Well, he is fortunately come.^^ ^ 

And slowly descending the stairs with a great noise of her 
gold-headed stick, she withdrew the bolts of the front door 
and opened it. 

“ Is it you, Guy?^^ she began. ‘‘ Why, I thought you were 
in long ago. The servants are all out but Peter, and he sleeps 
like— 

Mother, for God’s sake let me in!” he interrupted, pale 
as a sheeted ghost. The tower is on fire — and Miss 
Smith—” 

“ The tower on fire!” she shrieked, as she rushed past him 
like a mad creature, springing up the stairs toward the door 
leading to the bridge, shouting for help as he went. 

But in the same instant there was a crash like the rending 
of a huge forest tree from its fibered roots; the bridge had 
fallen, and the tower, a mass of flames from turret to foun- 
dation, stood like a fiery column, alone and isolated. Crash 
after crash followed; then thunderous noise of falling ceilings 
and beams giving way; the flames burst like red upward cas- 
cades from every window, and Guy Vavasor, standing with 
clasped hands and a face of mortal terror, knew that the time 
for help was past. 

Mrs. Vavasor knew it, too; nor was the evil light in her 
face the reflection alone from the conflagration upon which she 
gazed; while old Peter, who had just aroused to a sense of 
what was going on around him, was staring stupidly about, 
with a pail of water in his hand, crying feebly: 

“ Mistress, mistress! where be I to pour it?” 

“My God!” ejaculated Guy, covering his face with both 
hands, “ must I stand idly by while she is perishing in the 
flames?” 

Mrs. Vavasor, satisfied that her work was complete, hobbled 
down-stairs to see if Florine had heard the tumult. 

Softly knocking at the door she herself had fastened on the 
outside, she entered the apartment, where a bright light was 
always kept burning. 

“ Florine!” she said, in a voice which, in spite of herself, 
was slightly tremulous, “ Florine!” 

But there was no answer. The room was empty. 

For an instant the sickening incubus of a great fear weighed 
down her very heart. Could it be possible that, urged by 
some childish freak, of which Florine’s nature was full, she 
had stolen secretly upstairs, and crossed the bridge to nestle in 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


219 


the governesses couch, sharing the same pillow with the young 
creature she loved so fondly? Had she, by her own murder- 
ous act, destroyed the person she cherished most tenderly and 
devotedly in all the world ? 

She staggered back, sick and confused, as if struck by some 
cruel blow. 

But almost in the same breath she felt a gush of cool air 
from a wide, open-window opposite, close to which a chair 
had been drawn. The enigma was solved at last. 

The child had been awa keened by the confusion without; for, 
by this time several boat loads of people from the opposite 
shore had arrived and there was a miniature Babel surround- 
ing the building; and, unable to open her door, she had sprung 
from the window, and made her way thus to the scene of the 
disaster. It was but a trifling distance from the window-ledge 
to the ground — nothing to a child of Florine’s elastic quick- 
ness and agility; and, relieved by this mental assurance, old 
Mrs. Vavasor hurried out once more to seek her granddaugh- 
ter. 

“ Florine! Florine!^^ she called again and again, pushing 
her way madly between the spectators, and staring around with 
eyes that seemed fairly to blaze out from her cadaverous old 
face. 

“ I am here, grandmamma, answered a merry voice. 
‘‘Oh, isn’t it fine? Fm so glad the old tower has burned 
down, so long as the rest of the house is safe. I always hated 
it.” 

Mrs. Vavasor started back with distended jaws and a faint 
sound like a cry. 

Close to Florine, with her arm round the young .girl’s waist, 
Clara Romayne was standing, intently watching the progress 
of the flames. 

Rescued once more from the shadow of the valley of death 
— saved yet again from a fate that Mrs. Vavasor had deemed 
as certian as death itself ! 

“ You — you here!” she gasped. “ I thought — I believed — ” 

“ Wasn’t it providential,” cried Florine, fondly drawing 
her governess close to her, “ that I got lonely and nervous, 
and crept through the halls in my night-gown, after you were 
all in bed, to coax Mary Smith to come and sleep with me to- 
night? Oh, Mary!” and she burst out into hysterical crying, 
“ what would have become of you if — if — ” 

But a voice interrupted her, husky and shrill, like that of 
one in mental pain — that of Guy Vavasor, who had just come 
up. 


220 


THE BELLE OF SAKATOGA. 


‘‘Mary!^^ he cried, “oh, my God, how can I sufficiently I 
thank Thee! If you had perished in those flames, Mary,^ he | 
added, passionately, “ I would have rushed in and perished, ! 
too, for life without you is but a worthless gift!^^ 

“Hush!’" 

Clara Eomayne drew back, her cheek growing even paler 
than it had been before. 

“ But I will not hush,"’ went on the excited young man, 
lowering his voice, but speaking rapidly still. “ Mary, I can 
keep silence no longer; you must hear me. I love you. 1 
can not live without you. Oh, tell me that you return that 
love, if only in the slightest degree.” 

“Mr. Vavasor,” said the governess, shrinking back, “you 
must not speak to me so. We can never be more than friends, 
not even that if you don’t cease to persecute me thus!” 

“You do not love me!” he gasped, leaning against the 
stone pillar of the porch. 

“ 1 do not — nor ever can.” 

“ Do not say that, Mary. Let me have a little morsel of , 
hope to live on. Perhaps in time — "" 

“ Time can never alter my feelings,” she said, sadly. 

“ But, Mary — "" he urged, breathlessly. i 

“Mr. Vavasor,” she interrupted, “for Heaven’s sake, ‘ 
spare us both this needless pain. My decision is final. 1 can 
never love you, because every pulse of my heart is given to i 
another. I tell you this to convince you that any further en- 
treaty on your part will be useless. Spare a helpless, friend- 
less girl, and speak to me no more of this. " ’ 

Vavasor stood as if paralyzed by the sudden shock of her 
firm, low-spoken words; and in the same second came a crash, 
filling the air with smoke and flame. The tower had fallen. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. j 

CLARA LEAVES THE ISLAND. ,j 

The next morning’s sun rose, cruelly bright and cloudless, 
over the charred and smoking mass of blackened timbers and 
fallen masonry, which were all that remained of the octagonal 
tower, and Clara, looking out upon the ruins, with Florine 
leaning over her shoulder, felt awe-stricken, she knew not 
why, and strangely sad. 

What would have been her sensation had she known the 
true history of the conflagration, or dreamed of the awful peril 
which had hung over her own young life? 

But she was ignorant, fortunately so, or perhaps the knowl- 


THE BELLE OE SAKATOGA. 


221 


edge that her life was hunted with so relentless and desperate 
a purpose might have urged her overtaxed nature one step too 
far, and driven her mad. 

As it was, however, her mind was full of anxious thought 
and sad forebodings. She could not forget Guy Vavasor’s 
words of the night before, the words which must so materially 
alter her position in the household of Severn’s Tower. For 
after what had passed it would be painfully embarrassing for 
her to remain at Severn’s Tower unless Mr. Vavasor should 
see the propriety of at once leaving the island. Surely it 
must be equally as hard for him to meet her again as for her 
to look him in the face as if they were mere every-day ac- 
quaintances. She was entirely helpless to avert these evil 
consequences, but it was at Guy Vavasor’s own option to pro- 
tect her from the slightest annoyance, and she had sufficient 
confidence in the chivalry of his nature to believe that he 
would at once bring his stay at Severn’s Tower to a termina- 
tion. 

Mary,” whispered Florine, softly stealing her own loving 
little hand into Clara’s clasp, “ what are you thinking of.^” 

“ A variety of things, Florine, many of which I can hardly 
explain to you,” answered the governess, with a mournful 
smile. 

“ Do you know, Mary, it seems so strange,” said the im- 
pulsive girl ; “ but you are like two different persons at times.” 

“ How like two different persons?” 

“ Well, you are only three years my senior, after all,” ex- 
plained Florine, and there are times when you seem almost 
a child like myself — and then again, you change so strangely, 
and seem, oh, years and years older than I, as if you had 
lived a life-time of trouble and grief. Oh, Mary! I am a 
careless, heedless child; but I notice these things, and I am so 
very, very sorry for you when the old shadow comes over 
your heart.” 

The governess drew Florine closer to her and laid her pale 
cheek against the child’s golden fiowing hair, with a caressing 
movement. 

“ Oh, Florine,” she murmured, “ may it be long before you 
are as old in heart as I am! It were far, far better for you to 
die now, and lie down in your quiet grave, my poor child.” 

“ But, Mary, tell me about it!” pleaded Florine, wistfully. 
Clara drew back. 

“ 1 can not, dearest; it is not the least part of my punish- 
ment that I must suffer in silence. Do not ask me to explain 
this mystery to you, but remember, darling Florine, whatever 


222 


THE BELLE OF SAKATOGA. 


happens to either of us, that your sympathy was very dear to 
me.” 

“ But, Mary, what should happen?’^ asked the child, with 
soft, wondering eyes. 

‘‘ Not-hing, love, nothing. There is the bell — let us go in 
to breakfast. 

Mrs. Vavasor sat at the table, bent and bowed beyond her 
usual wont, while her face was frightfully cadaverous, and she 
shunned the glances of those around her, as if she bore some 
guilty signet on her brow and feared lest its import should 
be deciphered by all who looked upon her. She spoke little — 
neither did Guy, who was himself nearly as pale, and had it 
not been for Florine^s careless chatter about the startling inci- 
dents of the foregoing night, the conversation would have 
flagged wofully. 

“ I suppose you will have the rubbish of the fallen tower 
cleared away as soon as possible. Uncle Guy!’^ she said, with 
a glance out of the opposite window, through which was visi- 
ble the little group of servants and curious strangers who had 
rowed over from Severnsdale, early in the morning as it was, 
to look at the result of the conflagration of the previous night. 

“ I hardly know,^^ said Mr. Vavasor. “ To tell you the 
truth, Florine, 1 think of leaving Severn’s Tower in a day or 
two. ” 

Florine uttered a cry of surprise. Mrs. Vavasor looked 
sharply up, and Clara was vexed to feel the crimson torrent 
welling up into her pale cheek as she bent over her plate. 

“Why, Uncle Guy!” exclaimed the child, in an injured 
voice, “ it was only yesterday you were talking of the nice 
nutting parties we would have in the woods, and the old- 
fashioned way in which we were going to spend Christmas to- 
gether.” 

“ Very possibly,” returned Mr. Vavasor, dryly, “ but I 
have'changed my mind.” 

Florine pouted; in truth, she was sadly disappointed at this 
unlooked-for change of affairs. 

“ Are you in earnest, Guy?” questioned his mother, 
abruptly. “ Do you really mean to leave Severn’s Tower?” 

“ I really do, mother.” 

Mrs. Vavasor looked keenly from her son to the governess, 
then back again, and a slow smile crept over her thin lips as 
she conjectured the true state of the case. Fortune had not 
entirely deserted her banner, after all. 

Just as they were concluding the morning meal a servant 
entered with some letters. 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


223 


They arrived five minutes ago, sir. Joseph brought them 
from the post-office, when he came with the carpenter^s men 
and the builders.'’^ 

Guy Vavasor slowly broke open the seals one by one. 
Florine lingered in hopes of hearing some news which might 
specially interest her, and the young governess sat silent oppo- 
site. 

But the last letter seemed to possess more interest to Mr. 
Vavasor than any of the others. He read it eagerly twice 
over, and finally laid it on the table with a puzzled contraction 
of his brows. 

“ Here^s a piece of news that will materially alter my 
plans, he said, “ and over which I hardly know whether to 
be pleased or not.^^ 

‘‘ Who is your letter from, and what may the news be?^^ 
demanded Mrs. Vavasor. 

‘‘ From Philip Lennox, and he is coming to Severn’s 
Tower.” 

‘‘Lennox! Philip Lennox!” echoed Florine. “What — 
the handsome young man that traveled with you three years 
ago, and that you used to write so many letters about? Oh, 
1 am so glad! I should like so much to see him!” 

“ Child, be silent!” said the old lady, peremptorily. 
“ When is your friend coming, Guy?” 

“ To-morrow or the day after, he writes. I am sorry the 
island should present so dreary an aspect just at present.” 

“ Oh, Uncle Guy,” cried Florine, with a little grimace. 
“ I think the pile of ruins is much prettier than the humbug 
of a wooden tower which always seemed as if it were no rela- 
tion at all to the rest of the house!” 

And they talked about what apartment should be prepared 
in honor of the expected guest, and branched olf into half a 
score of various topics, and no one thought of observing the 
white, statue-like figure which sat with hands so tightly 
clinched that the filbert nails .actually cut into the tender fiesh 
of the palm, and eyes glittering with strange, repressed light. 
Clara did not faint, nor groan, nor cry out, but her suffering 
was none the less keen for being concealed, and when she fol- 
lowed Florine into the hall, the child noticed how pale and 
drawn her face looked. 

“ Mary, you are worn out with the terror and excitement of 
last night!” she exclaimed, involuntarily. “We will have no 
lessons to-day.” 

“ Florine,” said Clara, taking both the girl’s hands into 
hers, and looking eagerly into her face, “ I wish 1 could tell 


224 


THE BELLE OE SARATOGA. 


you what^s in my heart, but I can not — oh, I can not! Leave 
me a little while, darling— let me resL^^ 

“ Does your head ache? Let me bathe it with cologne. 

“ No; it does not ache, or, if it does, I do not feel the j)ain. 
I only want to be alone, Florine. Just for a little while, my 
dearest. 

So Florine brought a pillow to lay over the arm of the 
school-room sofa, and after carefully darkening all the win- 
dows,, crept on tiptoe out of the room, returning an instant 
afterward to bring a branch of delicious hot-house roses, tinted 
with cream and gold, and breathing a subtle fragrance which 
she persisted would cure any headache to smell of. 

And she left Clara with the roses lying on her pillow, and 
only one or two beams of morning gold tracing their glimmer 
on the carpet through the closely drawn blinds. 

She lay there nearly an hour, quite alone and motionless, 
thinking what it was best for her to do. Of course it would 
now become impossible for her to remain at Severn’s Tower, 
for the same roof could never again shelter herself and the 
husband she had left forever — and a shuddering groan broke 
from her overcharged bosom as she thought what an avenging 
fate seemed to pursue her with relentless footsteps. 

Severn’s Tower had begun to seem like a sweet, home-like 
refuge to her; Mrs. Vavasor was taunting and unkind, but 
Florine’s child-like affection a thousand times counterbalanced 
all her grandmother’s bitterness — and just as the wearied 
heart was beginning to calm itself into something like peace, 
the summons came to be up and doing once again — to rise 
and face once more the cruel world, which she had learned to 
dread more timorously than ever since the rude contact with 
it had taught her how merciless it could be. 

She must leave Severn’s Tower, but when and how? All 
of her poor little effects had been destroyed in the fire which 
had razed the tower with the grounds, with the exception of 
a very few articles which had been temporarily in Florine’s 
room. 

Among the latter was her suit of out-door wearing apparel, 
and the porte-monnaie in the pocket of her dress, which con- 
tained a few dollars of the money Mrs. Armour had so thought- 
fully advanced to her. 

“ She will think I have been unfaithful to her trust, and 
Mr. St. Severn’s kindness will seem cruelly abused,” she 
thought, with a slow tear or two stealing out from underneath 
her long eyelashes; “but I must not pause to think of that 
now. My fate seems to have passed beyond the control of my 


tHE BELLE OF SAKATOGA. 


225 


own hands now, and I can but blindly follow its stern dic- 
tates. It may seem wrong, but I have heard good ministers 
say that God is kinder in His judgment than man, and He 
will pity my loneliness and grief. 

A clock, striking in the room beyond, warned her that the 
hour of noon had arrived. 

She had lain there longer than she had any idea of, or, 
rather, time had slipped unheeded away in the confused 
tumult that seemed to crowd the power of thought out of her 
brain. 

She rose, and going to Florine^s room, bathed her eyes and 
brushed out the tangled curls that hung so wildly over her 
forehead. 

“ How pale 1 am!^^ she thought. “ A few years like this 
will soon fade out the beauty which I used once to exult in 
possessing. Well, let it go; I would not lift one finger to 
detain its illusive bloom!^^ 

As she came out into the hall, with slow, languid footsteps, 
like some one just recovering from a long and exhausting ill- 
ness, Florine passed her, carrying a little vase of fiowers in 
her hand, which she had herself selected out of the conserva- 
tories. 

‘^Oh! is that you, Mary; and do you feel better?^^ she 
asked, in the ringing, joyous tone that seemed almost a part 
of herself. “ Come and see how nicely we have fitted up the 
purple damask room for Mr. Lennox. 

Clara suffered herself to be drawn along by Florine into a 
pretty apartment, with bedroom and dressing-room opening out 
of it, on the south side of the house, where a bright fire was 
already burning, for Mrs. Parker, the housekeeper, believed 
in the sufficient airing of unused rooms in a stone house like 
that of Severn’s Tower. 

“ I beg your pardon, miss,” said Parker to the governess, 
as she stood looking with a strange, yearning sensation around 
the room that was to be occupied by her husband, when she 
herself was far away; “ but I have taken the liberty to pre- 
pare for your use the little room just next to Miss Florine’s. 
1 hope you’ll not find it too small, miss.” 

“It is quite large enough, Mrs. Parker, thank you,” an- 
swered Clara, languidly. 

“ You see, miss, 1 thought you would like being near Miss 
Florine, and as the madame was in one of her tantrums, and 
would neither answer yes or no when I asked her should I 
prepare another room for you, 1 just went according to my 
own notions. Dear knows it was a good thing you weren’t 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


m 

in the tower last night; and for my part I never did like the 
idea of your sleeping in that old shell of a solitary place, but 
the madarne, she woii^t like being contradicted when once she 
has made up her mind, and — 

“ Has any one found out how the fire originated yet, 
Parker?^^ asked Florine, interrupting the old woman^s gar- 
rulous flow of talk. 

“ Bless me, no, miss; how should they? I dare say it was 
old Peter^s carelessness when he went round shutting up for 
the night, though he denies it up hill and down dale.'’^ 

As she talked on, Clara gazed silently around the room, de- 
termined to bear away in her brain a mental photograph of all 
that it contained — the easy-chair where he would sit at twi- 
light, watching the red glow of the fire; the table where he 
would write; the window from which he would gaze; the very 
carpet upon which his feet would tread. Would he be lonely? 
Would he recall the past some time? And, oh! would he 
ever think of her? With almost a groan she turned away, 
without daring further to trust herself with the too suggestive 
train of thought. 

But when Mrs. Parker had disappeared into her own realms, 
and Florine had bounded away to join her uncle, whose form 
was just visible, riding out of the stable-yard upon a coal- 
black horse, whose arched neck and graceful limbs made him 
a special pet of the daring little girl, she stole out into the 
garden, and gathered a few late rosebuds, sweeter far than 
the earlier darlings of the year, with mignonette, sweet- 
scented verbena, and pearl-white alyssum, until she had made 
up a tiny bouquet of fragrant autumn blossoms. 

Keturning as softly as she had gone forth, she took Florine^s 
brilliant hot- house flowers from the slender-throated Bohemian 
vase on the table, and replaced them with her own simple 
tribute, bending to kiss the blossoms as she did so. 

“ He will never know it!^^ she thought, but I should like 
to do some little thing for him, and I shall fancy him looking 
down at the flowers I brought him!’^ 

Then stealing into the bedroom, she laid her cheek softly 
against the snowy, lace-frilled pillow, leaving there also the 
shadow of a fragrant longing kiss! 

“Good-bye, Philip — my husband!’^ she murmured, as if 
speaking to an invisible presence. “ You will never know 
how near I have been to you, but it will make me happier to 
remember it!^^ 

And then she left the room to its own solitude. 

Only once during that day did she meet Guy Vavasor alone^ 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 227 

and then she would have passed him as swiftly as possible, 
without a word, had he not stopped her. 

“ Miss Smith,’’ he said, slowly, and in a constrained voice, 
“ you will at least give me credit for desiring to spare your 
feelings as far as lay in my power. I would have left Severn’s 
Tower this very day had not the proffered visit of my friend 
interfered to prevent it!” 

“ I appreciate your kindness, Mr. Vavasor,” she replied, 
half audibly. 

‘‘But, Miss Smith — pardon me,” he rejoined, “you seem 
unhappy. May I dare to ask — ” 

“ 1 am unhappy,” she broke out, involuntarily. 

“Miss Smith — Mary,” he stammered, “it is hard enough 
to be miserable myself, but to see you suffer — ” He broke 
off, as if fearful of saying too much, and then resumed: “ Is 
there anything 1 can do to aid or relieve you?” 

“ Nothing,” she answered, mournfully. 

“ Do not let my mad foliy of last night debar me from the 
poor privileges of a friend,” pleaded Guy, standing so that she 
could not possibly pass him, as she seemed inclined to do. “I 
would fain know that 1 am forgiven for the rashness that it 
makes my blood burn to think of now.” 

” You are forgiven, Mr. Vavasor,” was her cold answer. 

“ Entirely?” 

“ Yes, entirely.” 

“ Mary,” he began, hesitatingly, while the color went and 
came ou his handsome cheek like the flutterings of a red- 
winged bird, “ I know I am mad and presumptuous; but if it 
were possible for you to reconsider your decision of last night 
— to try and regard me in a nearer light than the cold relation 
of a friend — ” 

“It is impossible!” she cried. “ Mr. Vavasor, this is un- 
kind, ungenerous, after your promise that it should not occur 
again. I have told you decisively that 1 could not love you — 
I have even gone so far as to confide to you the reason why. 
Surely, were there a spark of real chivalry in your nature, this 
should satisfy you and seal your lips upon the subject for the 
future.” 

Guy Vavasor groaned. 

“ So let it be. Miss Smith,” he said. “ 1 am not ashamed 
of what I have done — on the contrary, I am proud to have 
loved you. Let us both try to forget the past, and begin life 
anew, if we are to remain at Severn’s Tower, thrown by cir- 
cumstances into daily — almost hourly companjonship. Shall 
we adopt a new basis? Will you take me for your brother.^” 


228 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


“ AVith pleasure/^ said Clara, smiling sadly. 

“ And yon will try to be my sister?’’ 

“Yes.” 

“ Shake hands upon it, then.” 

And Clara laid her hand in his, a sign and seal of their new 
agreement, sighing as she did so to think how little it would 
signify to her or him twenty-four brief hours hence. 

The day passed away. Clara Eomayne scarcely knew how 
the October sunset stained the river with gold, and purple, 
and burning crimson, and died into melting amethyst; the 
evening dragged its weary length away. 

Mrs. Vavasor, who had not spoken one word to Clara all 
day, retired early to her room, and the governess wailed with 
feverish impatience for Florine to tire of her book and seek 
the repose which she always seemed to evade as systematically 
as any four-year-old baby who shrinks away at the very men- 
tion of bed. 

She had busied herself all the evening in poring over the 
columns of the New York daily papers, mentally comparing 
this paragraph with that, and copying into a slip of paper, 
when no one happened to be in the room, the address of one 
or two of them. 

For she knew of no more practical method of earning her 
bread than to answer once again the advertisements, which a 
short time before she had followed up with such sickening and 
wearisome persistency. She had resolved not to return to Mrs. 
Pinner’s, as well to avoid the torrent of questions which she 
knew would be asked, as from a horror of once more becoming 
a burden upon the slender resources of the kind-hearted little 
dealer in picture-frames. 

“ If ever I should be rich,” thought Clara, smiling sadly to 
herself at the glaring improbability of the idea, “ I will seek 
out that generous family; but while 1 am in poverty and help- 
lessness 1 will not add a single feather’s weight to their load 
of care and poverty.” 

But at length the time came when the house was closed, and 
still, and silent — when Florine lay sleeping sweetly among her 
nest of pillows, with her cheek, flushed like a newly opened 
rosebud, lying on one hand, and the golden hair, but half 
fastened into its net, streaming like sunshine over her face and 
shoulders, and Clara knew that she must select her season 
now if ever. 

But at this instant, as she stood all dressed and wrapped in 
her black cloak, so that all vestige of her personal identity 
jseemed to have vanished away, a great yearning seemed to 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


229 


seize upon her — a longing love for the old gray mansion of 
Severn^s Tower, and an overmastering dread to leave its shel- 
tering roof. A stifling fullness rose into her throat, the blind- 
ing tears rushed to her eyes, and she could have thrown her- 
self upon the floor and wept like a little child. 

This is mere folly,'’^ she thought within herself, “ and I 
must not allow it to influence one thought or action. I 
fancied myself to be braver and more womanly than this!’^ 

And resolutely combating the wild shrinking at her heart, 
she bent over and left a kiss, so light that it might have been 
the least breath of fragrant air, upon Florine^s lovely parted 
lips, and with one last, lingering look upon the beautiful 
young face she had learned to love so dearly, left the apart- 
ment. 

Through a long hall-way, or corridor, she passed, reaching 
at its further end the little glazed door, beyond which the sad 
autumn moonlight, veiled in flying racks of cloud, shone down 
upon the blackened and still smoking ruins of the tower. 
She softly turned the key in the lock, glided out, and avoid- 
ing the white, ghastly light, kept close in the shadow of the 
house until she had reached the broad path leading down to 
the boat-house. 

‘‘ Hush, Tiger — hush! good dog!^^ she murmured, sooth- 
ingly, as the huge mastiff rushed toward her with a savage 
rattling in his throat, and Tiger, obedient to her loving touch, 
hung down his huge flapping ears, and stalked beside her down 
to the boat-house, apparently confident that all was right. 

To unlock the boat with a key she found hidden in its usual 
lurking-place behind a crack in an upper beam, was but the 
work of an instant; and as Clara pushed the light craft out 
upon the smooth tide with a sigh of relief. Tiger sprung in 
after her, tipping the boat on one side with his awkward bulk. 

“ Back, Tiger, back!^^ urged Clara, in terror. 

But it was too late. The boat was already more than its 
own length from the landing-place, and Tiger was coiled com- 
fortably at her feet, winking his eyes in the moonlight, as if a 
boat’s bottom were his most congenial resting-place. 

“ At least, thought Clara, “ he will not now rouse the 
house by barking at the noise of the oars in the water! 

And comforting herself by this reflection, she pulled with 
all her strength, keeping well in the deep shadow of the well- 
fringed shores, until she had got so far up that there was little 
danger of her craft being discovered by any chance watcher in 
the Tower. 

Tlien^ striking boldly out in a b^e lino for tho ^boro^ sho 


230 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


exerted all her powers to speed toward the welcome lights on 
the opposite bank, which pointed out the exact locality of the 
little railroad depot at Severnsdale, and so resolutely did she 
strike the oars into the peaceful surface of the glimmering 
water, that in less than ten minutes from the time she had 
emerged from the obscurity of the wooded shores of Severn’s 
Island, she stepped on the dock, which extended out into the 
river from beyond the railway station. 

Tiger followed her closely, shaking his huge-fringed tail 
back and forth as if he fain would congratulate her on their 
safe arrival on shore once again. 

‘‘ 1 am sorry he has followed me,” thought Clara; “ but 
some one will take him back to the island again to-morrow.” 

And when the down train stopped for a single minute at the 
Severnsdale Depot, a slender young girl stepped on board, 
shrinking into the darkest and most secluded corner she could 
find, and drawing a relieved breath, as the train resumed its 
onward rush, while a huge dog left by himself on the board 
platform howled mournfully at the departing monster of fire 
and iron. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

MRS. GUILDFORD BRAGA. 

The proprietress of the Mutual Eclectic Intelligence Bureau, 
Room No. — , Broadway, had rather a dull morning of it, 
this eighteenth day of October. She was a fat old lady, with 
a smooth voice, an oleaginous skin, and plausible way of put- 
ting things, which went far at times to convince her customers 
that two and two made five, or that black was white, in spite 
of their own eyes and senses. 

“ How’s business, old lady?” demanded a rusty-looking 
man who had entered at last with a bundle of papers in his 
hand, and a pen behind his ear. The proprietress had as- 
sumed her smiling, smirking company face as he entered, as- 
suming that he was a customer, but as she perceived her mis- 
take, she leaned back in her comfortable chair, physically en 
deshabille. 

“ Well, business is poor; I won’t deceive you by pretending 
any other way, Amos,” said the fat old lady, brushing several 
specks of dirt off the skirt of her black alpaca dress. “ Either 
folks has left off wanting anything to do, or else there ain’t 
nobody that wants anything done.” 

“ Hardly that,” observed the man called Amos, who was, 
in reality, nephew of the old woman, and part owner of the 


THE BELLE OE SARATOGA. 


231 


Mutual Eclectic lutelligence Bureau^ as he turned over the 
leaves of the several mammoth leather-bound books on the 
high desk, “ because here’s lots of ‘ Situations Wanted/ and 
‘ Wanted, Capable Girls/ as nobody’s filled up as yet.” 

“ Well, then, folks is runniii’ rouud the world at cross- 
purposes, and that’s just as bad for our trade,” said the old 
woman. 

“ Hain’t heard nothin’ from those advertisements of yester- 
day and this mornin’?” queried Amos. 

“No; but it’s early hours yet— not ten o’clock, Amos. 
Hush, here comes some one now!” 

She assumed the smooth, smiling air of a well-to-do busi- 
ness woman at once, and Amos retreated behind a second desk 
at the other end of the room, where he busied himself with 
untying and sorting over his packet of papers, bills, etc., as 
the creaking door opened, and Clara Komayne came into the 
room. 

“ Good-morning, miss,” simpered the proprietress, pulling 
her head as far on one side as her fat neck would admit of. 
“ Fine day for this time o’ year, I’m sure— and what can I 
have the pleasure of doing for you this morning? Any help 
wanted — or a sitooation to teach?” 

Her first question was prompted by the lady-like grace with 
which Miss Komayne walked up to her desk — the second by a 
glance at the somewhat shabby dress she wore. But Clara’s 
answer soon decided her status in the proprietress’s discerning 
mind. 

“ I wish a situation as companion to some lady,” she said. 
“ I believe you advertised some such places in yesterday’s 
papers?” 

“ Well, we did,” said the old woman, reaching down one of 
her ponderous volumes, and beginning to turn over its leaves, 
one by one, wetting her fingers at her lips as she did so; “but 
we’ve had such a drive o’ business since that — howsomever 
there may be some left. I’ll look and see, any way, while 
you’re a-settlin’ with my partner at the t’other desk.” 

“ Fee, five dollars, miss,” interposed Amos, with a dis- 
agreeable smile, as Clara looked round. 

“Five dollars!” repeated the young girl. “ Is not that an 
unusually large price?” 

“ Not for this kind o’ business, miss. Them as is willin’ to 
get second-class places can go elsewhere,” said Amos, “ but 
we don’t keep none but first-class.” 

“ I want a first-class situation, of course, but — ” 


232 


THE BELLE OF SAEATOGA. 


“ Then you hadn’t oughter object to payin’ a first-class 
price!” coarsely interrupted Amos. 

Without another word of remonstrance, Clara halved her 
poor little stock of money by laying down a five-dollar bill on 
the table. Amos clutched at it as a raven picks up a grain 
of corn. 

What name is it?” he questioned. 

Clara hesitated slightly; she knew the expediency of aban- 
doning the name of Smith, which had become to a certain de- 
gree identified with her of late, but she was truthful by nat- 
ure, however sadly her education had failed in carrying out 
this mental bias, and it was not so easy to speak out this new 
falsehood. 

” What name, miss?” repeated Amos, in a louder voice, 
and she hastened to reply. 

“ Dalton — Mary Dalton.” 

“ Well, Miss Dalton, this ’ere fee entitles you to a month’s 
use o’ the Mutual Eckelectic Intelligence Booroo — you can 
come as often as you choose for the next thirty days, and we 
won’t find no fault. If one thing don’t suit you, we’ll guar- 
antee to find another. Now look sharp, old lady,” to the 
proprietress, “ and find a first-class sitooation for Miss Mary 
Dalton.” 

“ I’ve got the very thing,” said the old woman, who had 
been waiting for several seconds with her finger on an entry 
in her book. “ ‘ Mrs. David Slingsby wants a companion — 
nice, quiet place, six children. Will be treated as one of the 
family. Must be competent to act as housekeeper on occa- 
sions, and tend store in the confectionery, when Mrs. Slingsby 
is out.” 

Clara drew back. 

“ I do not think I should like that place!” 

“ ‘ Companion,’ ” read out the proprietress, after a mo- 
mentary pause, as if expecting Clara to change her mind, 

“ ‘ to a young lady in Cayenoria. Wages good — place re- 
sponsible, as young lady is subject to occasional fits of derange- i 
ment.’ How would that suit?” : 

“1 am not competent to fill such a situation,” answered 
Clara, recoiling at the idea. 

The proprietress arched her flaxen eyebrows, as if she 
thought Miss Dalton very difficult to suit, but after a minute 
or two’s search commenced again: 

“ Well, here’s another, and if you don’t like this, you 
must be a hard ’un to please: ‘ Mrs. Guildford Bracy, No. — 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 233 

Wesfc Fourteenth Street^ wants an educated Jady to travel with 
her; salary good; references required/^ 

Clara paused a moment, and then said: 

‘‘ Will you write down the address for me?^^ 

The proprietress obeyed, writing it on a greasy card which 
bore on the other side the business announcement of “ The 
Mutual Eclectic Intelligence Bureau;^^ and armed with these 
credentials, Clara set out on her way to No. — West Four- 
teenth Street. 

Apparently it was a fashionable boarding-house, for several 
ladies and gentlemen were in the parlor into which Clara was 
shown while her card was being taken up to Mrs. Bracy, to 
say nothing of a swarm of clamorous children, who were dis- 
porting themselves to the great inconvenience of everybody 
else. 

In a few minutes the girl returned, and conducted Clara up 
two flights of stairs to a front room, showily furnished, where 
sat an extremely pretty young lady, in the slightest possible 
shade of mourning, a pearl-colored cashmere, with lilac rib- 
bons fluttering from her hair, and her pretty hands glittering 
with jewels, 

“ So youTe Miss Dalton, are you?’^ said the lady, raising 
her blonde eyebrows; I’m Mrs. Guildford Bracy.” 

As Clara conjectured as much before, she merely inclined 
her head at this piece of intelligence, and the young ladj — a 
widow, as Clara was speedily informed — proceeded to put the 
usual formula of questions. 

“ Nearly seventeen,” she echoed; “ oh, you must be older 
than that. Why, I am twenty-five, and I am sure you look 
ever so much older than 1.” 

Clara did not contradict this later statement, and Mrs. 
Bracy went on to a new subject. 

“ Eeferences — what references have you?” 

“ As I have never lived out as a companion before,” said 
Clara, quietly, although her cheeks turned a little deeper car- 
mine, ‘‘I have no reference as to that particular situation! 
As to general character, 1 can refer you to a very respectable 
family on Sixth Avenue — the Pinners. ” 

Sixth Avenue?” Up went the blonde eyebrows again. 
“ Oh, I dare say it’s all right. I never do go to see refer- 
ences, because, you see, one must be all right if one has refer- 
ence to give.” 

As this was the very thing on which Clara had depended — 
knowing as she did that under her new cognomen of “ Miss 
Dalton,” honest Joseph Pinner and his wife would utterly 


234 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


fail to recognize their old friend Mary Smith — our little hero- 
ine felt considerably relieved. 

Mrs. Bracy went on to tell Clara that, as the period of her 
mourning had nearly expired, and “ dear Guildford had left 
her comfortably well oft, she had concluded to travel a little; 
“ not on the Continent, you know, but just round, from place 
to place, as the fancy takes me. And 1 hope you are a good 
traveler. Miss Dalton.^’ 

‘‘ I believe I am."^’ 

‘‘ And willing to do anything 1 may require — anything rea- 
sonable I mean, of course?^’ 

Yes, Clara was; and Mrs. Bracy nodded her yellow curls in 
satisfaction. 

“ YouYe pretty; Tm glad of that. I like to have pretty 
things around me, and you look amiable. Oh! 1 dare say we 
shall be vastly pleased with each other. How soon can you 
come? Immediately?’^ 

“ At once, if you wish it,’^ said Clara. 

“ Then Til make my arrangements to go on to Niagara at 
once, before the season closes. 1 always like to visit Niagara 
at least once a year, and then one does meet so many delight- 
ful people there. 1 went there on my wedding-tour,’^ and 
Mrs. Guildford Bracy heaved a little sentimental sigh. “ And 
about the salary. 1 give thirty dollars a month, and pay your 
expenses — rather a more liberal allowance than you will often 
find, I flatter myself.” 

“ 1 have no fault to find with the salary, madame,” said 
Clara, simply; “ and, if you wish, I will remain here, to as- 
sist you in any preparations you have to make.” 

“Oh, you wish to begin the arrangement at once?” said 
Mrs. Bracy. “ Well, I suppose you wish to be rid of paying 
expensive board somewhere; and 1 am sure I’ve no objection. 
The house is full, but I dare say these people can make you 
up a bed on the floor of my little dressing- closet.” 

After much tumbling over of wardrobe shelves and bureau 
drawers, Mrs. Guildford Bracy found a lavender satin dress, 
in which a quilling of black thread lace was partially sewed, 
and upon which she promptly set Clara to work; for, as she 
shrewdly observed, “ she didn’t believe in wasting time.” 

As Clara looked up ever and anon from her work, she 
studied the pretty widow’s face with a keen insight into 
human nature which she had learned in the course of her 
nornad-like life. 

Mrs. Guildford Bracy was very pretty, with a piquant, 
sprightly style. Her yellow curls drooped over a fresh pink- 


THE BELLE OE SARATOGA. 


235 


and-white face, her lips were rod and ripe, and every time she 
laughed — which was frequently — she displayed a row of pearly 
teeth which a dentist might have envied for his show-case. 
Apparently she was good-natured and superficial, although a 
little selfish, and Clara arrived at the mental conclusion, in 
the course of the morning, that Fate might have cast in her 
destinv with many a worse companionship than that of Mrs. 
Guildford Bracy. 

Several other things she learned, one of which was that 
Mrs. Bracy, although she perpetually alluded to the loss of 
her deceased husband as a trial which she never could get 
over, was nevertheless on the brisk qiii vive for a successor to 
“ dear Guildford,^^ which was, perhaps, at the bottom of her 
longing desire after change and travel. 

“ We^ll start at once, Mary, my dear, said Mrs. Bracy, 
who only wanted some one to talk to, and who was already 
waxing intimate and confidential to the “ companion she 
had scarcely known six hours; “ because there^s no use put- 
ting these things off, and one really ought to improve this 
lovely weather. ThaCs right. You are putting on the lace 
exquisitely. By the way, v/hat are you wearing mourning 
for — your father?’^ 

“ 1 lost my father years ago,^^ said Clara, pausing from her 
work and looking up, with an absent gaze, as she spoke what 
was at once truth and falsehood; ‘‘ my mother within the past 
few months. 

“ Dear, dear!'^ twittered Mrs. Bracy, sympathetically. 
“ And you have no brothers or sisters?^ ^ 

Nor other relatives?^^ 

“ No; not one.’^ 

‘‘That is bad,^^ sighed the widow. “ But then, you see, 
my dear, you’ll be sure to get married soon, because you really 
are so pretty. Don’t you know how pretty you are?” 

Clara smiled. 

“ I do not think much about it, Mrs. Bracy.” 

“ Oh, that’s nonsense. A woman can’t help thinking about 
her beauty. x\nd then you are such a nice contrast to me — 
our styles of beauty will seem as such delightful foils to each 
other. You are so dark, and I am such a blonde. Does your 
hair curl naturally?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Oh, I wish mine did. I have to put it up en papilotte at 
night, but that isn’t so bad when one’s husband is dead. I 
used to try bandoline and white of egg, but it made everything 


230 * I'illi BELLi: OE SARATOGA. 

SO horribly stickyi I suppose you are delighted at the id( a oi 
traveling, Mary?^^ 

“ I think I shall enjoy it, certainly. 

“ And then> it will be such an advantage to you, too/^ went 
on Mrs. Bracy. “ Why^ with your face, Mary, you^ll pick up 
a husband in no time at all> and you woiiH find me one of the 
jealous kind, to keep you in the background. Bm not 
afraid,^^ and she laughed mid shook the yellow curls, with a 
conscious vanity that really was rather becoming in its artless 
egotism. “ I do wonder, Mary, which will be married first, 
you or 

“ You, most assuredly,^ ^ said Clara. 

“ Now, do you really think so.^^^ questioned the little 
widow, highly flattered; “upon your word of honor? Well, 
I don’t think it is so very improbable, because, of course, a 
widow has certain advantages — a sort of savoir faire, you 
know, and — oh, dear! there goes the dinner-bell. Do put up 
your work, Mary, there’s a dear, and help me with my black 
lace shawl, for there is the most interesting widower down- 
stairs, and though he’s fifty, still — there, that will do!” 

And Mrs. Guildford Bracy fluttered down-stairs like a mag- 
nified bird-of-paradise in full plumage. 

“ I thiuk,” mused Clara to herself, as she sat quilling the 
thread lace on to the glistening breadths of lavender satin, 
“ that 1 have got a very nice situation. Apparently Mrs. 
Bracy is silly, but then she is kind, and I shall do my best to 
make her like me, and — ” 

But in the self-same instant came a thought of sweet little 
Florine, probably at the moment mourning over her lost gov- 
erness, and Clara had to lay aside the lavender satin lest it 
should be spotted by the sudden rain of tears. 


CHAPTEK XXXVI. 
claea’s fate follows her. 

It was just a week subsequent to the events described in our 
last chapter that Clara Eomayne found herself seated, one 
afternoon, in a pretty private parlor of one of the monster 
hotels at Niagara, with the casements trembling with the 
tremendous rush of the giant cataract of the world, and a 
pleasant view of the many-colored woods of Goat Island and 
the Canada shores beyond every time she glanced up from her 
occupation of arranging a wreath of delicate artificial ferns and 
wild violets to decorate Mrs. Guildford Bracy’s hair that even- 
ing. 


i'HE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


237 


“ I^m so glad we have got such pleasant rooms, Marv,’"’ 
chirped the little widow, who was comfortably reclining on the 
easiest sofa she could find,* thin king she was reading a new 
maga:fine, but in reality chattering away like the human mag- 
pie that she was. “ Of course I shall be out a great deal, for 
there are a lot of people here whom 1 know, and Tin always 
in great demand where society is concerned; but you’ll have 
to spend a great deal of time here, and I really am beginning 
to have a great regard for you, Mary dear.” 

“ Thank you,” said Clara, demurely. 

“ You’ve not a particle of vanity or self-assertion about 
you, you see,” went on Mrs. Bracy; “ and if there is any- 
thing 1 am intolerant of, it is the least approach to conceit.” 

“ Yes,” said Clara, smiling, “ I think it is rather an an- 
noying failing. ” 

“To be sure,” chirped Mrs. Bracy. “Mary, would you 
wear the lavender satin to dinner, or the white alpaca with 
violet peplums?” 

“ I don’t know. Which would you prefer?” 

“ Why, my amethysts would go best with the satin, but 
these pearls are becoming to my clear complexion, and I’ve 
got a love of a set that poor dear Guildford imported express- 
ly from Paris. I could wear those with the alpaca.” 

“ It seems to me that the satin and amethysts would be 
more appropriate for a dinner-dress,” said the companion. 

“ Well, perhaps it would. Just lay it out, Mary, that’s a 
darling; it will save me the trouble of getting up. I’ll wear 
a cluster of pansies with it over the left eyebrow. It’s such 
a relief to have you here, Mary, on that very account, to settle 
these perplexing questions of dress. I used to have such dis- 
tracting headaches to think what it was best to wear, and now 
1 have such confidence in your taste! I had a French maid 
once, and she hadn’t half the judgment that you have!” 

Clara laughed. 

“ If you flatter me so much, Mrs. Bracy, I shall certainly 
be spoiled. Come, now, if you intend to be ready for dinner, 
you really must begin your preparations.” 

“ Are you ready to crimp my hair over the hot slate pen- 
cils?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Did you do up the Valenciennes set?” 

“ Yes, before you were awake this morning.” 

“ Dear me,” said Mrs. Bracy, with a yawn, “ what a little 
busy bee you are, to be sure! Well, 1 suppose I must get up; 
and so interested as I am in this lovely piece in this magazine 


238 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


about — about— what was the name of the country? I do like 
to read a little now and then, it makes one appear intellectual 
in company. I wonder if Mr. Sbr Coeur will be at dinner? I 
might make something out of the magazine article with him, 
for he^s one of your awfully intelligent kind.^’ 

“ St. Coeur?’^ 

Clara had dropped the hot slate pencil over which she had 
twisted the short, yellow tresses of the widow^s flaxen hair. 

“ Yes; isnH it a funny name? Greve St. Coeur! He ought 
to be French, but he isn^t. A very nice fellow, and rich, but 
he isn’t one of the marrying kind. 1 think there ought to be 
a law against men being bachelors. He has got an intellectual 
sister, too. I’m awfully afraid of Helen St. Coeur, and always 
was, though she and I were school-mates. But then, she isn’t 
as pretty as I am,” added Mrs. Guildford Bracy, complacent- 
ly. “1 don’t see why she comes to Niagara; she must be 
nearly thirty, and of course when a girl gets to be such an old 
maid as that she hasn’t the ghost of a cliance for matrimony.” 

“ Is that what all ladies are supposed to come to Niagara 
for?” asked Clara, who had been recovering her disturbed 
equanimity as Mrs. Bracy rattled on. 

“ Now, Mary, you know what I mean. I am a married 
woman, and married women can do as they please; but when 
a girl who hasn’t secured an establishment as yet goes from 
place to place wherever society congregates we all know what 
it means!” 

“ And what does it mean?” questioned Clara. 

‘‘ Why, a husband, of course. There, I think you’ve 
crimped it enough; and now, if you’ll only fix the pansies. I’ll 
be all ready for my dress.” 

And presently Mrs. Guildford Bracy went down to dinner, 
like unto the lilies of the field in the gorgeousness of her rai- 
ment, running back to tell Clara that she had just met Mrs. 
Sardonyx, who had told her theie were so many nice people 
come over from the other hotel, and a lot of new arrivals be- 
sides. 

“ Do you think I’d better change to the white alpaca?” she 
asked, breathlessly. 

No,” said Clara, laughing, and yet with perfect truthful- 
ness, “ you look very pretty as you are. I don’t think the 
white alpaca dress would be any improvement.” 

“ I’m so glad you think so,” said the widow, and once more 
she vanished. 

Clara had absolutely declined to go to the hotel table with 
Mrs. Bracy, on account, as she said, of her preference for 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


239 


quiet, as well as the extreme plainness of her dress, and the 
little widow would not for an instant listen to her companion's 
going to the second board with a miscellaneous host of nurses 
and servants. 

“ Because you really are a lady, Mary,^^ she said, “ and 
they're — well, they^re all sorts of people. So I shall just 
order your meals sent up to the room, and then you shall be 
as quiet and secluded as you please. 

‘‘You are very kind, Mrs. Bracy,^^ said Clara, with earnest 
gratitude sparkling in her eyes, for this commingling with the 
lower classes was inexpressibly abhorrent to her delicately re- 
fined nature. 

“No, I’m not,” said the widow, “ because 1 really like 
you, Mary Dalton.” 

And in proof of her liking she would have loaded Clara with 
the most inappropriate and incongruous mass of second-hand 
finery had not the girl resolutely refused to receive any gift 
more expensive than a white muslin dress or two, and a very 
simple shawl. Mrs. Bracy, who was delighted in ornamenting 
herself, could not understand this taste, but she found herself 
forced to acquiesce in Miss Dalton’s firm though gentle de- 
cision. 

Punctual to the usual hour Clara’s simple little dinner came 
up, but long after the servants had removed the tray she sat 
alone, and it was not until nearly dark that Mrs. Guildford 
Bracy came hurrying into the room, her blue eyes glittering, 
and her dimpled cheeks all flushed with excitement. 

“ Oh, Mary!” she cried, throwing herself on the sofa, with 
an outward flirt of the skirts of her lavender silk dress (for 
even in her enthusiasm she remembered the possibility of 
crushing her beloved draperies). “I’ve had the charmingest 
time. Such a lot of delightful gentlemen!” 

“ Indeed! Who are they?” asked Clara, glancing up from 
the book she was reading, not that she was particularly inter- 
ested in the fact, but Mrs. Guildford B racy’s manner per- 
emptorily demanded at least a pretense of sympathy. 

“ There’s Colonel Fitzsimmons, from the Fort Erie garrison, 
and Mr. Ward, a delightful Englishman, and the two Park- 
hursts, from New Orleans, with such charming, chivalrous 
manners, and Greve St. Coeur — I told you about him before, 
you know; but the handsomest and nicest, and most interest- 
ing of all is Mr. Lennox, of New York.” 

It was well that the approaching gloom of dusk hid the 
strange paleness that overspread Clara Romayne’s face, as she 
listened to the pretty widow’s careless prattle. 


240 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


But Mrs. Bracy was no great proficient in the study of the 
human face divine, nor was it improbable that she would have 
failed to notice Clara^s involuntary agitation, even had it been 
broad daylight, so she went on: 

“ Yes, Mr. Philip Lennox, of No. — Fifth Avenue, for I 
asked his man-servant in the hall. Isn^t it aristocratic to 
travel with a man-servant? And he has such a romantic his- 
tory, too. I learned all about it from Harry Park hurst, who 
is a college mate of his. Oh, you should have seen how jeal- 
ous Miss Sardonyx was when I sat in the window with Harry 
Parkhurst hanging over me, and talking in low tones,. like 
the most devoted lovers alive. They say she is engaged to 
him, but I don’t believe it! Well, as I was saying, Harry 
Parkhurst told me all about it. Mr. Lennox was married last 
summer, at Saratoga, to the most beautiful creature that ever 
the sun shone on, and everybody says they were madly in love 
with each other. It was a grand wedding, and Harry Park- 
hurst thought it so singular that I shouldnT have heard of it. 
But I was on Long Island, sea-bathing for the benefit of my 
complexion, and one never hears of anything there. And now 
comes the romantic mystery of the thing. In the very hour 
of their bridal the girl disapjoeared!^’ 

“ Disappeared!’^ repeated Clara, in a scarcely audible voice, 
as Mrs. Bracy paused, in apparent expectation of a reply. 

“Yes, disappeared, and no one has ever seen or heard of 
her since. Whether she was murdered and her body con- 
cealed, or whether she ran away with some other man, or 
whether she was driven to the marriage against her will, and 
took the earliest opportunity of escaping from the bonds that 
were so hateful to her, nobody knows, and I suppose nobody 
ever will know, for every possible means have been taken to 
discover her whereabouts or trace her flight.” 

“ And have they never discovered the least clew?” asked 
Clara, faintly. 

“ No, never; and Parkhurst says that Mr. Lennox is a 
changed man since this sad affair. His very heart and soul is 
bound up in dicoveriiig her whereabouts. Wherever he goes 
that one object still occupies his mind to the exclusion of every- 
thing else; he worships her memory as if it were the shrine of 
a saint; and Parkhurst says he really thinks that if some trace 
be not soon discovered the effect on his friend’s mind will be 
truly disastrous. Isn’t it a most romantic story?” added 
Mrs. Bracy, dropping from Mr. Parkhurst’s style into her 
own. “ In this cold, every-day world, it is difficult to find a 
case of real, true love, such as this. ” 


THE BELLE OF SAKATOGA. 241 

Love!’"’ repeated Clara, bitterly. “It is false! he never 
loved her!’^ 

“ What makes you say that?^^ inquired Mrs. Bracy, looking 
at her companion «vith surprise. 

“ 1 mean/^ faltered Clara, turning hot and cold, and feel- 
ing, for a moment, that she must have betrayed her secret, 
“it is not likely — for, if all had been really sympathetic be- 
tween them, why should she have left him?^"^ 

“ Dear knows,^’ said Mrs. Bracy, shrugging the shoulders 
that shone so whitely beneath their veil of black lace; “but, 
at all events, it sounds like a three-volume novel. And he is 
the handsomest fellow, with dark-blue eyes, and hair that 
waves naturally, and a figure like the Apollo Belvedere. I 
wish you could see him once — and you shall! Fll manage it 
so you shall be in the hall, or somewhere, when he goes to 
dinner. 1 know you’d be sure to fall in love with him.” 

“ No,” said Ciara, peremptoril}^ as she felt the hot blood 
rush to her face and then recede again, “ I do not want to see 
him. Men are all alike, tyrants, and heartless, and I, for one, 
will not lay the offering of a single glance upon the shrine of 
their cold self-assertion.” 

Mrs. Bracy opened her eyes in great amazement. 

“ Why, Mary Dalton, 1 hadn’t any idea you were such a 
man-hater!” 

“ It is a lesson man himself has taught me,” was trembling 
on the young companion’s lips, but she repressed its utter- 
ance, and gazed dreamily out upon the darkening landscape 
without. 

“ Harry has promised to introduce me to him this evening,” 
added Mrs. Bracy, after a momentary pause. “ I actually 
think it is the bounden duty of us women to do our best to 
console him under the suffering inflicted by one of our own 
sex.” 

“ And does no one pause to think of her suffering?” 
thought Clara, with her head dropping still lower on her 
breast. 

“ Besides,” Mrs. Bracy resumed, her busy, shallow little 
brain at work at all manner of possible and impossible conject- 
ures, “ he’s exactly the style of a man I have always fancied, 
and, of course, when he discovers that she can not be found 
— his wife, I mean — he will finally take measures for a divorce, 
and be free again. A man can’t be tied to the memory of a 
shadow always — it isn’t right nor reasonable to expect it.” 

In the soft autumnal darkness, with the red eye of the stars • 
watching her like a steady, unwinking gaze, Clara shrunk and 


242 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


trembled beneath the knife-like thrust of these unconsciously 
cruel words. Sharp and cruel, like an adder^s envenomed 
tongue, the pang of jealousy for the first time pierced her 
heart, giving a keener edge to the pain that she was already 
enduring. 

In all the dark possibilities that had presented themselves to 
her mind she had never believed in this. 

And if he should be divorced,’^ twittered Mrs. Bracy, 
“ there’s no reason he shouldn’t take a fancy to me. They 
say he is very wealthy, and the family, I am given to under- 
stand, is quite unexceptionable. Now, Dalton, light the gas. 
I shall go down to tea in this dress, and you can prepare my 
white alpaca for the evening. I do wonder how those velvet 
puffings are made on Julia Sardonyx’s dress; they would be so 
pretty for my gray chine. I might ask her to lend me the 
dress for a pattern, but she would always be boasting about it. 
I believe the chit positively thinks she’s pretty, but if Harry 
Parkhurst is engaged to her it can’t be for anything on earth 
but her money!” 

Clara was inexpressibly relieved when at last Mrs. Guildford 
Bracy went down-stairs, and she was left in solitude to ponder 
upon the careless words the young widow had spoken. Would 
Philip Lennox, finally, in despair of ever again obtaining any 
trace of the young wife to whom he had sworn at the altar to 
be true, seek a legal means of obtaining entire freedom once 
again? She had always assured herself, with a sort of bitter 
satisfaction, that she and Philip could never again be aught 
to each other — but when she came to think of him as freed 
by the strong hand of the law, as the possible husband of some 
other woman, the keen torrent of anguish that overflowed her 
heart seemed almost greater than she could endure, and bow- 
ing her face upon her hands she wept tears wffiich might have 
been drops of gall for very bitterness. 

“ What shall 1 do?” she thought. Shall I go away and 
leave this place? Yet what would that avail me? 1 am safe 
enough here as long as I have self-control to shun all possible 
chance of meeting him, and wherever 1 should flee in the bit- 
terness of my spirit 1 should still conjure up in fancy ten thou- 
sand worse possibilities than could annoy me here! No; I 
have fled my fate long enough. The hour of trial will pass 
away in time, and I have only to endure it with what patience 
I may possess!” 

The evening was long and tedious, but to Clara it seemed as 
if scarcely five mijjntes had elapsed before Mrs. Bracy came 


THE BELLE OP SARATOGA. 243 

upstairs flushed, and vivacious, and pretty, with the declara- 
tion that it was past twelve, and that she was so tired. 

“ But Vve had a pleasant evening, Mary,^^ she said. 
“ Harry Parkhurst kept his word, and introduced me to Mr. 
Lennox, and we promenaded together, and had such a charm- 
ing time; and 1 know every girl in the room envied me my 
handsome cavalier. I tried once or twice, when we were 
touching on rather confidential topics, to lead the conversation 
to his wife, but he avoided the subject resolutely.’^ 

“ Very sensible of him, I should think,” observed Clara, 
with a slight curve of her lip. 

“Very stupid, 1 say,” pouted the little widow; “but I 
mean to try it again. Oh, Mary! I am in love with him 
already. Such lovely dark eyes, and a refined manner as he 
has. One might know he had spent a long time in Europe; 
and oh, Mary, 1 did bring in the magazine article, and 1 told 
you 1 should.” 

“ How?” 

“ Well, it was about Peru — the mines of Peru^ for I got the 
magazine and looked, just before I went down-stairs, to make 
certain. So he was telling me something about spending a 
summer in Wales, and the tin mines there, and how much 
employment they gave to the peasantry there, and I knew that 
then was my time, so 1 looked just as intelligent as possible, 
and asked him were they anything like the mines of Peru. 
Wasn’t that skillful of me?” 

“ Very skillful,” said Clara, dryly; “ particularly as the 
mines of Peru happen to be diamond mines. ” 

“ Diamond or tin, it’s all the same; there is nothing like 
making use of what you read,” said Mrs. Guildford Bracy, 
with a yawn. “ Come, Mary, take the flowers out of my hair, 
and bring me the rose water and glycerine for my complexion, 
and Pll go to bed! Oh, by the way, I had almost forgotten 
to tell you — 1 want you to call me at five o’clock to-morrow 
morning, for we’re all going for an early stroll on Goat Island 
— Harry Parkhurst, the Sardonyxes, Mrs. Taylor’s party, and 
we — that’s Mr. Lennox and me. ” 

“We!” echoed Clara, with a bitterness she tried in vain to 
repress. 

Mrs. Bracy burst out laughing. 

“ Who knows how soon it may be ‘ we ’ in earnest,” she 
cried, gleefully. “ Really, and without any vanity, Mary, I 
always was very popular among the gentlemen, and I’ll wager 
a box of new gloves that Mr. Lennox is in love with me three 
months from now!” 


244 


THE BELLE OF SABATOGA. 


“ Mrs. Bracy/^ remonstrated Clara, filled with a strange 
flutter of dismay and anger, “ you forget that he is a married 
man.^^ 

“ A married man!’^ echoed Mrs. Bracy. Yes; but what 
sort of married man? A widower bewitched, that^s what I 
should call it. He will be free by the time I am ready to 
marry again 

And Mrs. Bracy went to bed, happy in her own smiling 
vanity; wrapped, figuratively speaking, in a triple armor of 
conceit. 

But Clara lay awake, long and anxiously pondering on this 
new terror which had taken possession of her soul! Could it be 
possible that he might one day become the husband of Mrs. 
Guildford Bracy, the fair little siren who had set herself so 
resolutely at work to besiege the fortress of his heart? True, 
the widow was shallow, insipid, and brainless, but she pos- 
sessed a certain sparkling vivacity of manner, which might 
easily pass, if not too closely scrutinized, for wit, and espie- 
glerie, and then, besides, she owned the fatal gift of beauty! 
Even from the unimpassioned standpoint of a woman’s view, 
Clara Komayne recognized and confessed this gift— and to a 
man, there might easily be a charm, which would grow and 
strengthen with time, in that fresh, blonde loveliness of golden 
hair, and cheeks of pink and pearl! 

Men, from time immemorial, have been slaves to beauty! 
What right had she to take it for granted that Philip Lennox 
was any stronger-minded than the rest of his sex? And as 
she lay listening to the soft, regular breathing of the pretty 
little creature who nestled so serenely among her pillows in 
the next room, a feeling almost akin to hatred rose up in her 
breast! 

“ Have I grown so wicked — so base?” she asked herself, 
recoiling from the idea with a shudder. “ Do I hate that soft, 
lovely woman, because, in all ignorance of my real identity, 
she confides her plans and projects to me, unconsciously be- 
coming my rival in the lists wherein woman can least endure 
competition? She is in no way to blame; it is I only that am 
in fault— but it is a fault that never can be corrected in this 
world. Oh, merciful Father! keep me from becoming a 
monster of malice and wickedness, in spite of myself! Let 
me learn to be resigned, knowing that as the wheels of destiny 
roll on, 1 have no power to arrest or check their progress!” 

And when at last she tell asleep, her pillow was wet with 
tears whose bitterness was past all power of description! 


THE BELLE OE SARATOGA* 


245 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

THE WIFE^’S JEALOUSY. 

Notwithstanding all her good resolutions of the night be- 
fore, Clara Romayne’s heart ached the next morning, as she 
saw how very pretty Mrs. Guildford Bracy looked, in her tiny 
hat of white straw, bound with blue velvet ribbon, and shad- 
owed with the feathery droop of a blue willow plume, while 
her dress of white pique was just short enough to reveal the 
tiniest little arched foot, in a dainty Balmoral boot, suitable 
for morning strolls over dewy paths and damp grass. 

“ Am I all right, dear?^^ demanded the blonde fairy, as she 
eyed her rosy self in the glass. 

And Clara truthfully answered: 

1 never saw you looking more lovely. 

Mrs. Guildford Bracy gave Clara a hug and a kiss in token 
of her extreme gratification. 

“ That’s yourself all over, Mary Dalton!” she cried, gay- 
ly. “I always declared there wasn’t a spice of jealousy in 
your whole nature.” 

If Mrs. Bracy had but known the fierce, bitter flame of jeal- 
ousy which was corroding Clara’s heart at that very instant! 
Is it not a blessed dispensation of Providence which conceals 
from us the mystic workings of one another’s hearts? Clara 
scarcely knew whether to rejoice or be annoyed at Mrs. 
Bracy’s blindness, as she stood at her window, watching 
through the nearly closed slats of the blind the gay party set 
forth in the fresh crimson of the balmy autumn morning. 

Her eyes roved restlessly over the group, taking little heed 
of any one of them, until they were joined by Mrs. Bracy, 
leaning coquettishly upon the arm of a tall, stately figure, 
whom Clara recognized with an involuntary start, almost a 
cry. Yes; it was her husband, the man whom she had so 
loved and worshiped, whose coldness had broken her heart and 
blighted her young life; and even in that moment of resentful 
feeling she could not but acknowledge to herself his stately 
mien and graceful bearing, and the pale, high-bred beauty of 
his face, as he stood for a moment turning toward the hotel, 
while the particular route to be taken by the party was dis- 
cussed. 

And then her heart was again torn by the sharp tooth of 
jealousy, as she saw him bend to listen to Mrs. Bracy’s softly 
spoken words, with a chivalrous show of interest. It was all 


2ii] 


THE BELLE OF SABATOGA. 


proper enough — a gentleman surely ought to evince some 
pleasure in the society of a young and pretty woman, who was 
so bent on pleasing and fascinating him — but Clara, unrea- 
soning in her fevered anger, felt as if she could have torn the 
dimpled beauty from her resting-place on Philip Lennox’s 
arm. 

“ How silly 1 am/’ she thought. “ He surely can not care 
for her. Why, they have not known each other for two days 
yet!” 

But, nevertheless, she turned away from the window. She 
coiild not bear to look upon the unwelcome spectacle of her 
husband devoting himself, with such apparently willing gal- 
lantry, to another woman. 

“ Well!” she said, with pale, eager interest, as Mrs. Bracy 
re-entered the room a few minutes before eight, looking the 
very picture of bright, sparkling health. 

Oh, I’ve had a splendid time!” said the widow, turning 
aside the willow-plumed hat, and walking to the glass to ad- 
just her yellow crepe hair. 

“ Did — did you make any impression on the widower?” 
Clara asked, with a hysteric attempt at a lauah. 

“ I think I’ve made a very good beginning,’’ said the uncon- 
scious Mrs. Bracy. “We are all going for a drive on the Cam- 
den shore this afternoon, if it continues pleasant,” 

“ Is Mr. Lennox going, too?” 

“ I suppose so, though he didn’t particularly say. As all 
the rest of the party are going, I didn’t want to appear 
anxious, you know.” 

“ And does he still continue fascinating as ever?” asked 
Clara, pricking restlessly at a few dead leaves in the fringe of 
Mrs. Guidford B racy’s shawl. 

“ That he does!” cried Mrs. Bracy, with kindling eyes. “ I 
tell you what, Mary Dalton, 1 don’t know whether 1 shall suc- 
ceed in making him fall in love with me or not, although, of 
course, I’ve my own ideas on the subject; but this 1 do know 
— I’m desperately in love with him already.” 

She laughed as she spoke, and Clara, pale and trembling 
with the excess of her emotion, wondered how she could speak 
so lightly of a subject that was to her freighted with awful in- 
terest. 

From that moment commenced the strain upon Clara’s 
already overburdened nature, which had nearly proved too 
severe for her endurance. 

She might have saved herself this anguish, had she been 


THE BELLE OF SAllATOGA. 247 

capable, at just that time and season, of using reason and com- 
mon sense. 

So far from being particularly interested in Mrs. Guildford 
Bracy, Philip Lennox considered her simply a very pretty, 
affected little woman, as harmless as she was brainless, while 
the strong electric current of his love never for one moment 
swerved from the one object of its passionate adoration, his 
lost bride. And as the period of his sojourn at Niagara grew 
to a close, he felt rather relieved than otherwise, for Mrs. Guild- 
ford Bracy was getting a little oppressive in her attentions. 

“If it were not that I am certain, from sundry hints she 
had dropped, that she is aware of the whole sad history of my 
life,^ he thought, once or twice, “ I should almost be tempted 
to imagine she is mad enough to fancy me a suitor for her 
blonde, second-hand charms 

He laughed, in the solitude of his own room, at the idea, so 
absurd and foundationless did it appear. 

“ I must be getting very conceited,^^ he soliloquized, “ and 
Mrs. Bracy would be the first to be horrified at the idea. 

And so, that very evening, when a moonlight stroll on the 
island was proposed, and Mrs. Guildford Bracy said, with a 
timid, appealing glance at Mr. Lennox, “ how perfectly en- 
chanting it would be’/’ he at once proposed himself as her 
escort, the very thing she most wished to have him do! 

Flying upstairs to the room where her pale companion sat, 
drooping over some interminable piece of needle-work, destined 
to set off and heighten the beauty’s charms, she triumphantly 
imparted this encouraging circumstance to Miss Dalton. 

“So give me my lightest black cashmere,” she said, 
smilingly, breathless, “ and the worsted coiffure, with the lilac 
balls round the edge? Quick! for it is getting late already!” 

Clara obeyed silently, but all the while there was a fixed, 
stern purpose maturing in her heart — and when she had heard 
them depart, in company with one or two light-hearted, 
laughing young couples — Mrs. Sardonyx and her fiance, and 
the St. Coeurs— she wrapped herself in a black water-proof 
cloak belonging to Mrs. Bracy, and drawing the hood closely 
over her head and face, glided after them at a safe distance, 
trembling at her own presumptuous boldness, yet exulting, 
nevertheless, to think that she would no longer be blinded as 
to what was transpiring around her. 

As she crossed the bridge, beneath which the rapids foam 
and boil with wild restlessness, she glanced down at the fright- 
ful current with a strange feeling. How inexpressibly sweet 
it would be to seek an eternal repose where neither sickening 


248 


THE BELLE OF SAKATOGA. 


jealousy nor anguished loneliness could reach her more, be- 
neath those hurrying tides! It was as she had suspected. On 
reaching the island, the part}^, instead of keeping together, had 
separated, each couple wandering off in their own favorite 
direction; and keeping close in the shadow of the old trees, 
Clara found herself, in a very few minutes’ walk, in the close 
vicinity of Mrs. Guildford Bracy and her husband. 

“ How very fast we have been walking!” sighed the widow. 

“ Are you not very tired?” 

“ Tired?” he said, rousing himself, as by an effort, from 
his absent-mindedness. “ Iso — but you must be. How selfish 
of me not to think of it before — but the evening is frosty, and 
1 suppose I have hurried my pace almost mechanically. Here 
is a bench under this tree, with a view of the Falls, as fine as 
any the island affords — will you sit down and rest?” 

She obeyed, making room for him at her side, with a pretty 
gesture of summons. He sat down, and Clara, stealing noise- 
lessly through the woods, leaned with throbbing heart against 
a huge tree, whose gnarled trunk effectually sheltered her re- 
treat, although she was so near that every tone of (heir voices 
was distinctly audible to her. 

“ So you are really going away next week?” said Mrs. Bracy, 
after a few moments’ toying with the gold links of her hand- 
kerchief-holder. 

“ That is my present intention.” 

‘‘ Of course, you will not regret leaving?” she said, archly. 

‘‘ Do you mean leaving you, or leaving Niagara?” he asked. 

“ Which you j)lease.” 

‘‘ My stay here has not been altogether pleasant,” he said, 
gravely; “ in spite of the many agreeable circumstances which 
have surrounded me, I have been harassed by many anxieties, 
followed by perpetual annoyance. Mrs. Bracy,” turning 
shortly toward her, with a suddenness of motion which made 
Clara start, lest he should rise and draw inadvertently near 
enough to discover her lurking-place; “ you can not be igno- 
rant of the peculiar circumstances of my life.” 1 

“ I am not,” she faltered; “ but — surely, Mr. Lennox, you j 
are surrounded by no obstacles absolutely insurmountable.” ^ 

“I hope not,” he answered, almost passionately; “if I 
thought they were insurmountable, I should grow sick ami | 
weary of my life.” 

He spoke earnestly, thinking of a possibly successful ter- 
mination to the search which had so long proved unavailing; - 
but Mrs. Bracy, interpreting his words according to the bias Oc 
her own thoughts, grew pink with pleased blushes, and (he 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 249 

dark figure, leaning against the old tree trunk, thi*illecl 
through with anguished despair. 

Silently she turned away. She had heard quite enough — 
too much, indeed — for her own peace. Yet, was it not well 
that she should grasp at any deliverance, however fraught 
with misery, from the awful suspense, the unsettled cloud of 
wretched suspicion which had so long overshadowed her life? 

And that life — what further use was it to her now? She 
had suffered and endured all the slights and insults which the 
world had to give — she had dreamed her brief dream of lore, 
and had been waked from it with cruel suddenness; what more 
was there left to her? 

Through all her career of suffering, want, and disappoint- 
ment, she had never utterly despaired until now. And with 
the desperate intention of rendering up vvitli her own hands to 
its Giver the life which had become hateful to her, she glided 
out of the woods and toward the steep shore, hundreds of feet 
below which rushed the Niagara Eiver, with a sullen roar, like 
some infuriate monster. 

Once precipitated into that awful chasm, life and its many 
perplexities would never haunt her more; and, with blind, 
passionate eagerness, she pressed onward, with the cold moon- 
light lying on the crispy grass and gray rock before her, and 
the stars shining sadly down like tiny torches to light her way 
into the unknown world. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

HUSBAKD AKD WIFE. 

Mrs. Guildford Bracy, however, was not one to abandon 
an advantage, even though it was barely momentary, that she 
had gained, and she did not pause long to enjoy the de- 
licious confusion induced by Philip Lennoxes words. 

“ And if,^' she began, softly, “ that is, in case of your be- 
coming free from this very unfortunate complication, have you 
ever thought — 

She stopped, uncertain whether she were not going too far. 
Philip Lennox caught up her words in an instant. 

“ Can you ask me?^^ he asked, in a voice full of suppressed 
feeling. “ Do you not know, from even the brief acquaint- 
anceship that we have had, that 1 should be happier than any 
throned monarch? I am not often enthusiastic, Mrs. Bracy, 
but this subject seems to inspire my tongue with unwonted 
eloquence. Up to this time a wife has been to me a vision, 
distant and unattainable — now, something seems to tell me 


2&0 


THE BELLE OE SABATOGA* 


that it is not far of!. Do you believe in pregehtlments, Mrs. 
Bracy?^’ 

“ Yes — no/^ said the puzzled widow, hardly knowing what 
to say, in her simpering embarrassment. 

“ I do not, i^ general, but there are times when we are 
forced to abandon the outworks of sober common sense and 
reason, and trust ourselves blindly to the instinct vouchsafed to 
us by higher powers. That instinct leads me now. By its 
light I seem to penetrate the veil of the future, and see my 
darling wanderer nestling close at my side.^^ 

Mrs. Bracy’s cheek lost the vivid carmine; she did not quite 
understand this new development of Mr. Lennoxes speech. 

“ You mean — she hazarded. 

I mean that the cherished wife whom I have lost, through 
some strange misunderstanding, or mistake, which will one 
day be made clear to us, is nearer and dearer to my heart now 
than ever before. Mrs. Bracy, I do not know why 1 speak 
thus to you — perhaps it is because your sympathy has revealed 
itself in the kind, pitying glances of your eyes — perhaps be- 
cause my heart must open itself to some one, and you are a 
gentle, womanly-hearted woman. At aJl events, I have con- 
fided in you, nor do I regret it. 

Mrs. Guildford Bracy had listened to these words with a 
strange commingling of keen mortification, disappointed van- 
ity, and a wounded feeling, which, had it been a trifle more 
mature or earnest, might have been phrased love! But she 
was a shrewd little woman after all, and accustomed to the 
vicissitudes that occur in all societies whereof men form a com- 
ponent part, and, moreover, she could not help feeling a little 
flattered that Mr. Lennox should thus confide in her. 

“ It^s a blessing 1 didn’t betray myself,” she thought, with 
a thrill resembling actual terror, at the recollection of the 
dangerous brink upon which she had stood, ere she made an- 
swer in a soft little voice, like the cooings of a bird. 

“lam glad you have told me this, Mr. Lennox. Believe 
me, I shall always sympathize with you — and now isn’t it get- 
ting a little chill?” 

For Mrs. Guildford Bracy cared for no more tete-d-tetes 
with the handsome New Yorker, now. 

Philip Lennox conducted her with punctilious courtesy to 
the very door of the hotel, and then, indisposed to slumber, 
and hoping to wear off his nervous sensations by brisk physical 
exercise, retraced his footsteps across the long railed bridge, 
beneath which roared and whirled the rapids with blinding 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 251 

rapidity, and once more reached the silent loneliness of Goat 
Island. 

Crossing over, through a grove of woods, to the open banks 
from which the great cataract shone like confused masses of 
silver in the moonlight, he strode rapidly along, musing on the 
one great question and problem of his existence, until a sudden 
rustle of garments aroused him, and, strong-hearted man 
though he was, he could not help feeling a superstitious thrill 
of terror, as he saw, hurrying madly past him, as if to throw 
herself over the awful cliff, a tall figure in black, sweeping 
robes. 

With a sudden instinct he threw himself in front of the 
bank, and caught the wrist of the stranger in an iron grasp. 

“ Are you mad?^^ he cried. “ Woman, do you wish to de- 
stroy yourself?^' 

“ Let me go!’^ she wailed, wildly. “ Let me go! Why 
should you wish to stop me?^^ 

His arms dropped to his sides at the sound of her voice; his 
face, dimly seen in the moonlight, was blanched deadlv white. 
“ Clarar^ 

“ Yes, it is I/' she cried, defiantl}^ “ The hunted outcast, 
the miserable fugitive, scarcely more than a child, whom God’s 
hand has robbed of all she held most dear on earth. Let me 
go, Philip Lennox — ” 

“ But, Clara, my darling — ” 

“Stop!” she said, bitterly; “do not outrage yourself and 
me by this miserable hypocrisy. You want to know how I 
came here? 1 have been living in that hotel for the last few 
days as companion to Mrs. Bracy, whom — ” But then she 
checked herself with a strong effort, and began anew. “ For 
even so miserable a wretch as 1 must live, you know, and 
though the bread of dependence is bitter, still it is bread!” 

“ Oh, Clara! Clara!” groaned Lennox, holding out his 
arms, imploringly, as if he would fain shelter her in their ten- 
der, protecting clasp. But she stepped haughtily back, with 
a repellent gesture. 

“ I have not been blind, Philip Lennox. I have learned 
that, not satisfied with hating me, you have grown to love an- 
other.” 

“ Clara,” he said, “ by the sacred light in yonder heavens, 
I swear — ” 

Her scornful laughter drowned his words. 

“ No!” she exclaimed; “no! ‘Thou shalt not swear by 
heaven, for it is God’s throne!’ Man, be silent!” 

“ But, Clara, how else shall I convince you hovy totally 


252 


THE BELLE OF SAKATOGA. 


mistaken you are? Sweet wife, 1 love you with the whole 
strenoth of heart and soul; I have never loved another/^ 

Clara tossed her arms aloft. 

“ Oh, blessed Father in heaven! can a man speak thus 
falsely and live?^^ she groaned. “ Philip Lennox, what did 
you say to Greve St. Coeur before the marriage words spoken 
at the sacred altar had ceased ringing on your lips? You mar- 
ried me, not because you loved me, but from a sense of duty! 
You felt as if an iron chain were bound about your whole life 
from that hour. Those were your words. Well, I loose the 
iron chain. I set you free. And had you not thrown your- 
self across my path, five minutes hence you would have been 
freer still P’ 

“ Clara,’^ he cried, with a sudden light beginning to break 
on the mysteries of the past few months, “ Clara, when — ’’ 

“ You have not heard me out,^^ she interposed, perempto- 
rily. “ What did you say — also in my hearing — to Mrs. Guild- 
ford Bracy not an hour ago? That, if the obstacles which 
surrounded you were insurmountable, you would be weary of 
your life! I am the chief of those obstacles; why did you not 
stand quietly by and let me remove it with the desperate hand 
of a suicide?^^ 

“ Clara, you have mistaken me altogether, he cried; “ give 
me but a moment to explain. 

“ 1 will not give you a single second, she sternly answered. 

“ What would be the use? We were unsuited from the very 
first, and 1 was mad not to see it myself. W'hat mate for 
you, a born aristocrat, to use your own cruel words, could be 
the child of a strolling actress, and — though God be my wit- 
ness that I did not know it then — a vagabond gypsy! Oh, let 
me go, Philip Lennox, before my poor brain gives way, and 1 
go raving rnad!^^ 

8he clasped her hands over her forehead with such despairing 
entreaty that Philip Lennox himself began to fear lest there . 
were truth and reason in her words, and that she was indeed ^ 
going mad. ; 

“My wife, -he pleaded, “my darling, whither would you < 
go?” ‘ ,j 

Her eyes followed his glance in the direction of the river, • 
and read their mute horror. ^ 

“ No,^'’ she said, hoarsely, “not there again. Of that I | 
will give you my word. 1 will not again attempt my own life. . 
God has giv'en it to me, and God alone shall take it away.^^ I 

She seemed growing more subdued and gentle, but to all ^ 
Lennox's entreaties to be alloived to explain the fatal interval j 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 253 

of circumstances which had risen up between them, or to assure 
her of his love, she returned a resolute refusal. 

“ Not to-night, she gasped. “ Leave me to-night. I can 
not bear another word. I feel as if the whole world was rock- 
ing vaguely around me. Be merciful, Philip Lennox, and 
urge me no more!^' 

“ My poor darling!^^ he said, in a voice husky with emo- 
tion; “ as if 1 would add a single hair’s-breadth to the burden 
on your poor, worn nature! Be comforted, as I have much to 
say to you, but I will not say it now. 1 can not leave you, 
however, until I see you safely at Mrs. Bracy^’s door. {She is 
a woman — she will pity and care for you. Now, lean upon 
my arm, Clara, for you are pale and trembling, and to-mor- 
row, love, I will convince you how terribly you have misjudged 
me.^^ 

She accepted his proffered arm without a word, and they 
walked on in silence, crossing the bridge, and keeping the same 
slow pace. Clara was- too weak and worn to walk fast, and 
Lennox was tenderly careful of her stumbling footsteps. 

At Mrs. Bracy’s door he paused. She turned wistfully 
toward him, with her hand on the knob of the door. 

“ You are very kind to me,^^ she said, in a dreamy, wander- 
ing sort of way. ‘‘ I don^t know why you should be so kind.'’"' 

Clara, Clara !^’ he cried, “ don^t speak in that way, or you 
will break my heart. 

“ Mine is already broken, she said, scarcely audible. 
“Well, it does not matter so much now."’"’ 

“Go to rest, Clara,^^ he said, really beginning to be seri- 
ously alarmed, “ and get all the sleep you can. To-morrow 
we will begin to live our new life, my darling one!^^ 

“ Yes, to-morrow!^^ she answered, softly, and went in, clos- 
ing the door noiselessly behind her. 

Philip Lennox stood a moment or two listening, but there 
was no sound. He had hoped to hear her rouse Mrs. Bracy. 
It seemed natural to him that women should confide in one 
another in moments of great anguish and perplexity; but 
then, after all, he reasoned within himself, Clara was not like 
other women, and perhaps perfect rest and repose were the 
best things for her after the terrible physical and mental 
strain she had that night undergone. 

And be returned to his own apartments, feeling marvelously 
light at heart; for surely there would be no difficulty in mak- 
ing her understand how completely she had been mistaken, 
and how tenderly and wholly she was enthroned in the kiiig- 
dom of his heart, At all events she was found again^ this 


254 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


pearl of great price, for which he had sought so long and so 
tenderly, and he trusted to his own eloquence — the eloquence 
whose birth would be in the deepest recesses of his heart — to 
win her to him as a loving, trusting wife! 

He fell asleep, murmuring to himself the last word he had 
heard from Clara^s lips: 

“ To-morrow 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

GONE. 

With the earliest dawn of that morrow’s sun, Philip Len- 
nox waked, with the blissful sense of some great happiness in 
store for him, which comes to nearly all of us at least once in 
the course of a life-time. Early as it was, he rose, and at once 
commenced his toilet, dressing with extreme care, for he felt a 
buoyant consciousness that this was to be the second bridal-day 
of his life, nor did he wish to brook the slightest delay. 

When he was dressed to satisfy himself — and the chaotic 
state of collars, neck-ties, stud-buttons, etc., in his bureau- 
drawers, sufficiently testified the difficulty of meeting that 
stage of his expectations — he sent his servant to Mrs. Bracy’s 
room with a card upon which he had hastily penciled a few 
lines, and awaited with throbbing heart and forced composure 
the response to this mute messenger. 

Five — ten — fifteen minutes passed away, and nobody entered 
the long-deserted room. Philip Lennox glanced at his watch 
from time to time, and strove to expedite the slow progress of 
the minutes by pacing up and down the length of the apart- 
ment, looking out of the windows and examining, with eyes 
that saw nothing of their beauties, the pile of stereoscopic en- 
gravings on the center-table. 

“ Surely, it is very strange that she does not come,” he 
thought to himself, the first idea, however, followed by a sec- 
ond reflection. “How unreasonable 1 am! Of course, she 
is worn out and wearied, poor little darling, and my rash send- 
ing K^p of the card roused her out of a peaceful slumber. She 
can’t dress in a minute — that is, if she is like other women, I 
must make allowance for all this, and not expect my wishes to 
be fulfilled as suddenly as if 1 were the fortunate possessor of 
Aladdin’s lamp!” 

But when another fifteen minutes had ebbed slowly by, with- 
out aniy manifestations from the apartments above, he grew 
more impatient than ever^ and rang the bell impetuously. 


tiifi fefiLLR OP SAtiATOOA. 

“ Send my servant liere!’^ he said to the polite hotel waiter 
who obeyed the rather imperious summons. 

“Yes, sir,^^ was the prompt reply. 

Talbot came — a fine-looking, middle-aged man, who, hav- 
ing entered his master^s service in England, some years ago, had 
remained with him ever since. 

“ Talbot,^^ said Mr. Lennox, “ did you deliver the card, as 
I told you?^^ 

“ Certainly, sir,^^ said Talbot, with a look of some surprise 
at the question. 

“ Who took it?’’ 

“ I could not see, sir; the door was opened just a trifle, and 
a lady’s hand reached out for it.” 

“ Was there no message?” 

“ No, sir; you did not tell me to wait for an answer,” said 
the man. 

“I know it, Talbot,” briefly answered Mr. Lennox; “you 
may go!” 

And as Talbot quietly withdrew, he was just in time to open 
the door to a light female figure, trailing a good deal of blue 
silk morning negligee over the carpet after it, and Mrs. Guild- 
ford Bracy entered the room, with a bewildered expression of 
countenance. 

Lennox’s face, which had brightened at the sound of a 
feminine footstep, clouded over again instantly. 

“ 1 beg your pardon, Mr. Lennox,” said the pretty widow, 
advancing with the card which he had sent up, delicately bal- 
anced between her fingers, “but whom was this card intended 
for?” 

“For your companion, Mrs. Bracy,” answered Lennox; 
“ the lady whom you call Miss Dalton.’^ 

“But where is she?’^ questioned Mrs. Bracy. 

“Where is she?” echoed Philip Lennox, aghast. “Why, 
where should she be? In your room. 1 suppose.” 

“ Indeed she is not!” asserted the widow, firmly. 

“ Not there? My God!” ejaculated Philip Lennox, with a 
groan, as he sprung forward a pace or two, and then staggered 
back against the wall. “ Then what has become of her? 
Woman, speak! She is my wife!” 

“ Your wife?” 

Mrs. Guildford Bracy was stunned with the unexpectedness 
of this news. Her companion the lost wife of Philip Lennox! 
Could it be possible? And then, like a flood, rushing in when 
the torrents are at their highest, came to her mind a thousand 
circumstances corroborative of these startling words — circum- 


tHi: BELLE OF SABAtOGA. 


25 (j 

stances trifling, and scarcely noted at the time, but which re- 
turned to her now with “ confirmation strong as proofs of 
Holy Writ.” Philip Lennox’s wife! How could she so long 
have suffered herself to be blinded? 

“ Merciful Heaven!” she cried aloud, with hands clasped 
tightly together. “ Why did I never suspect this before.^” 
But where is she?” demanded Lennox, glaring at Mrs. 
I) racy with fierce, eager eyes, as if he fancied she had hidden 
his precious treasure out of his sight. “ 1 saw her go into your 
room last night. Oh, she can not have evaded us again!” 

“ Yes, 1 know, 1 know,” cried Mrs. Bracy, shrinking from 
Lennox’s fiery gaze. “ She did come in late — and I called to 
her to know where she had been, and she never answered me 
a word, but passed straight through to her own apartment, 
like a black-draped nun. But 1 was drowsy and half asleep, 
and thought no more of it; but it seemed to me all night long 
as if there was a sound of low sobbing mingled with my dreams 
— God help us all! And long before light 1 waked suddenly 
with a strange feeling as if something had passed me by, look- 
ing on me as it went. I said ‘ Mary, Mary,’ for I was nerv- 
ous and frightened, but there was no reply; so 1 thought Mary 
Dalton was asleep, and 1 too dropped off into a doze, and 
never wakened until your servant knocked at my door with the 
card. And her things are all lying about — her poor little 
books and work-box, and the very white ribbon she tied in her 
hair — poor, poor child!” 

And Mrs. Guildford Bracy, who had a kind heart, albeit her 
brain was something of the weakest, broke into a gust of hvs- 
terical sobbing. 

“ Take me to your room,” muttered Lennox, hoarsely; “ oh, 
why, why was I so foolish as to lose sight of her for one in- 
stant!” 

“ She will come back, Mr. Lennox,” sobbed the widow; 
‘‘ slie must come back.” 

“ She will never come back,” groaned Philip. Arid then, 
as he remembered the strange, wild looks and words of his poor 
young wife the evening before, the awful conviction fastened 
itself upon his mind that some bewildering fever, or still more 
perilous aberration of the brain, w^as even then hanging over 
her. Where might she not have gone? What might she not 
have done under its fatal influence? And as he recalled the 
expression of face which he had looked upon as he hurried 
toward the roaring river scarce eight hours ago in the chill 
moonlight, he staggered backward, and fell like a senseless log 
upon the floor, while. poor Mrs. Bracy, wildly pulling all the 


THE BELLE OF SABAT0(4A. 257 

bell-ropes in succession, and calling piteously for Talbot, was 
really not much more in possession of her wits. 

Not an hour was lost in prosecuting the search for the lost 
girl. Goat Island was thoroughly examined, with a breathless 
fear lest somewhere on the awfully precipitous shores of the 
river a glove, a ribbon, or a fluttering strip, torn from Clara 
Eomayne^s black dress, should bear a mute witness that all 
that was mortal of her was ingulfed beneath the boiling tides. 
But, to their infinite relief, no such trace was found, and they 
could but conclude that she had fled in some other direction. 

Here, however, all inquiry signally failed, and after several 
days spent in fruitless investigation and search, which only 
seemed to recoil upon itself, Philip Lennox was obliged to con- 
fess himself baffled. 

“ What shall you do now, Mr. Lennox?^^ asked Mrs. Guild- 
ford Bracy, whose warm sympathy and tear-swollen eyes seemed 
to establish a silent nearness between herself and the bereaved 
husband. 

He looked up, worn, ghastly, and haggard, as one who has 
passed through wearing months of sickness. 

“1 see but one path to take, Mrs. Bracy,^^ he answered, in 
a hollow voice, ‘‘ and that is to go at once to the agents who 
have already assisted me in the endeavor to learn the where- 
abouts of my lost wife, inform them of this new development 
of events, and trust the result to Heaven 

Mrs. Bracy burst into tears. 

“ Oh, Mr. Lennox, do not speak so sadly. Yet a little 
more time, and we shall assuredly learn tidings of her.^^ 

“ I wish I could be certain of that,^^ he answered, sadly. 


CHAPTEE XL. 

THE SECRET IS REVEALED. 

Old Mrs. Vavasor was sitting among the barbaric splendors 
of her room, glittering with jewels, like the Queen of Ethiopia, 
or some other Oriental she-potentate, with the pink light from 
the dome of colored glass streaming down upon her with deli- 
cate illusive glow. 

Both clasped hands rested upon her gold-headed cane, and 
she was leaning slightly forward, her eyes fixed with a stealthy 
cat-like glimmer upon a guest sitting opposite. 

But in the last few weeks Mrs. Vavasor had changed marvel- 
ously. She had grown old and yellow and wrinkled beyond 
her usual wont; the lines at brow and eye had deepened; the 
palsied quiver of every limb and muscle had passed almost be- 

9 


THE BELLE OE SABATOGA. 


258 

yond her control, and sometimes, when she glanced up sud- 
denly, there was a scared look in her eyes as if some unseen 
shadow stood ever at her right hand. 

The other occupant of the gorgeous apartment was no other 
than Mrs. Jason Eomayne, as coarse and hard-featured as ever, 
while her tawdry dress, soiled and crumpled, and carelessly put 
on, betokened no improvement in the matter of personal taste. 

“Come, now, Madame Vavasor,^’ said she, in a coaxing 
voice, as if she were talking to a spoiled child, “ you wonT be 
hard on me, 1 am sure, after all that Fve done for you. 

“ Done for me! You!^^ croaked the weird old woman. 

“ It’s a lie, Sabrina— you were always lying. You’ve done it 
for yourself. ” 

“ A thousand dollars can’t be much to you,” resumed Mrs. 
Eomayne, “ with all these jewels and precious stones.” 

“ They’re not mine; you know very well that they’re not 
mine,” interrupted Mrs. Vavasor, eagerly. “ They all belong 
to the St. Severns.” 

“ Well, suppose they do — them that lets you wear ’em will 
let you have all the money you like. I’ll go bail.” 

“ It’s no use talking, Sabrina,” cried the old woman, petu- 
lantly. “ You ask too much. I haven’t got it to give, and 
if I had 1 wouldn’t let you have it.” 

“You don’t mean that, I’m sure, Mrs. Vavasor, after all 
the years we’ve been friends,” soothed Mrs. Eomayne, looking 
a little uneasy, nevertheless. 

“ But 1 do mean it, Sabrina,” asserted Mrs. Vavasor. 

“ You’ve screwed a deal too closely — it’s been beg, beg, 
money, money, the whole time. I’ve made up my mind a 
great many times that this should be the last of it, but some- 
how you’ve always talked me over. Now, I mean tdkeep my 
word!” 

“ You wouldn’t treat me so shabbily,” cried Mrs. Eomayne, 
apprehensively. 

“ Shabbily! 1 treat you shabbily?” echoed the old woman, ; 
with a shrill cachinnatory tone. “ The only trouble is. I’ve ; 
been generous beyond my means — I’ve poured money in^o 
your lap as if I’d owned a mint, but I’ll do so no more. Go 
your ways, Sabrina Eowe — you’ll get no further dole from me.” , 

Mrs. Eomayne flushed and moved uneasily on her chair. 

“ And this is the way you would turn away a faithful de- 
pendent. Madame Vavasor, I v^ouldn’t have believed it of 
you.” 

“ But you haven't been faithful,” chuckled the old woman. 

“ You haven’t told me the truth — you’ve kept me in the dark; 


THE BELLE OF SAKATOGA. 


259 


you have told me just euough to suit yourself, and trusted to 
my blind folly never to find out your sly tricks, Sabrina. It 
was a very cunning contrivance, and it might have gone down 
with some people, but not with me.^^ 

Mrs. Eomayne attempted no denial of this last charge, but 
rose up, with anger, and defiant. 

“ Let me understand at once, Mrs. Vavasor, do you mean to 
give me a little from your abundance, or not?” 

‘‘No, Idon’t.^^ 

“ Then we are enemies henceforward?^^ 

“ That’s just as you like,” said the old woman. “ 1 say 
neither yea nor nay. ” 

“ You defy me!” 

“ Don’t be a goose, Sabrina! As if 1 didn’t know perfectly 
well that whatever implicates me implicates you!” 

“ But not just in the same way, Madame Vavasor — not in 
the same way!” gasped Mrs. Eomayne, white with rage. 

“ Come, now, ITl give you a hundred dollars to clear out and 
leave off annoying me. Will that do?” mouthed the old 
crone. 

“ No, it will not!” shrieked her infuriated companion, whose 
temper seemed rising into a perfect tempest. “ I’ll have no 
compromise! It shall be a thousand, or nothing!” 

“ Then it shall be nothing,” composedly answered Mrs. 
Vavasor. “ Go away from me, Sabrina; you were always in- 
tolerable when you were in a passion. I’m too old for excite- 
ment; it isn’t good for my nerves.” 

“ I will go away, then — but I will go straight to Mr. St. 
Severn and overturn all the plans you have been building for 
years, see if I do not!” faltered Mrs. Eomayne, in a voice 
husky with passion, and with a face that worked nervously. 
“ Madame Vavasor, I give you one more chance — shall I go, 
or stay?” 

Mrs. Vavasor turned indifferently away, and took up a 
silver honlonniere which lay on the table beside her. 

“ I wonder if there are any more chocolates left,” she said, 
calmly. “ Parker should have ordered some last night, but I 
think Parker grows neglectful, like the rest of them!” 

And she busied herself fingering the sweets that filled the 
little casket. 

Mrs. Eomayne stood pallid and quivering as she spoke. Ap- 
parently, this contemptuous ignoring of her presence angered 
her more than direct taunts would have done, and turning 
away, she went out of the room, banging the door behind her 


260 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


with a violence which set all the little ornaments on the cen- 
ter-table a-jingle and made Mrs. Vavasor wince. 

“ There she goes/^ said the old woman with a mechanical 
working of her sunken jaws, “ in a rage, as usual. Sabrina 
never could control her temper, but itdl work ofiP just as it 
always does. Sabrina knows better than to quarrel with me; 
she’ll never go to Eustace with her silly tales. I’ve seen her in 
many such a tantrum before, and nothing came of it! But I’m 
older than I was, and it worries me. I mustn’t let her be so 
violent when she comes back, as she will do presently. ” 

But Mrs. Vavasor was mistaken this time in the calculations 
which had always proved correct before. Instead of coming 
back, meek and subdued, to accept whatever terms the old lady 
saw fit to offer, Mrs. Eomayne went straight to the little 
library or study where Mr. St. Severn generally sat when he 
was at Severn’s Tower, and knocked at the door with hands 
that yet trembled with rage. 

The same thing might and would have happened before if 
Mr. St. Severn had been within easy access of the high-tem- 
pered woman, at those times — nor were they unfrequent — in 
which Mrs. Romayne had quarreled with the old witch of bro- 
cade and jewels. 

Mrs. Romayne was a woman who was capable of almost any 
action, however mad or wild, under the influence of extreme 
passion. But hitherto Fate had fought on the side o^ 
Eugenie Vavasor. Mr. St. Severn had been away, and Mrs. 
Romayne had had time to cool down into the temperature 
of reason and common sense. Now, however, that he was in 
the same house, as she had learned by previous questioning of 
the servants, she paused for no second thought, but hurried at 
once to slake the thirst of passion with the sweet draught of 
revenge. 

Eustace St. Severn heard the stormy knock with some sur- 
prise, and called out: 

“ Come in.” 

Scarcely waiting for the words of admittance, Mrs. Romayne 
pushed open the door, and entered. 

It was a pleasant apartment, curtained with gorgeous folds 
of ancient damask, and cheered by the glow of an open fire, in 
which Mr. St. Severn sat surrounded by books and papers. 

Mrs. Romayne walked straight up to him, and, to his infi- 
nite surprise, he recognized in her face the lineaments that had 
once been familiar. 

“ Can it be possible that this is Sabrina Rowe?^^ he asked. 

She courtesied low. 


THE BELLE OE SAKATOGA. 


261 


“ Yes, sir, it is I — the old housekeeper at Severn^s Tower, 
eighteen years ago, whom your grand lady, the first Mrs. Sfc. 
Severn, discharged for insolence. I dare say 1 was insolent, 
sir, but she was a high- tempered lady, you know, sir, and — 

“ That will do,^^ said Mr. St. Severn, slightly contracting 
his lofty brows. “We will not go back to those topics, if you 
please, Sabrina. 

“But you must, sir,"’’^ said Sabrina, earnestly, though not 
with disrespect, “ for I have something to tell you.^'^ 

“ Something to tell me, Sabrina?^ ^ 

“ To tell you, sir,^’ she repeated, firmly, “ something you 
would have given all the broad acres of Severn^s Island — ay, 
and all your treasured wealth, too, sir — to have known long 
ago. 

“ Stop, Sabrina, I do not understand you. 

“ Listen to me, sir, only listen to me,^^ she interrupted, 
“ and you shall know all. Try to carry your memory back to 
nearly sixteen years ago. Where were you then?^^ 

He paused a moment with abstracted face, and grave con- 
sideration. 

“ It was the year that my wife died, during my absence in 
Palestine. 

“ Yes, sir; the year she died, leaving your little Clara but a 
few months old. 1 was not then in service at Severn^s Tower, 
having been suddenly discharged by my lady, who wasnT 
suited with what she called my independent ways. But Mrs. 
Vavasor was visiting at the Tower then, with her beautiful 
daughter, who afterward became your second wife, and she 
chanced to know that I had been married but a short time, and 
had a child of about the same age as Clara. 1 took the babe 
to nurse, by her orders — and 1 kept her. I was living on a 
little farm, then, up in the country, and Clara was wdth us there 
when you returned to Severn^s Island. 

“ I know; go on!’^ 

“ Well, sir, time went on. Mrs. Vavasor, knowing your 
wealth and rank, did her best to bring about a match between 
you and her daughter, and finally she succeeded. It wasnT 
much more than a year before you were married to Miss 
Marian Vavasor, and a sweet, pretty young thing she was — 1 
haven’t a word to say against her, though she hadn’t a tithe 
of the spirit of your first lady. 

“ And then you went abroad with her, and the baby stayed 
on with me, because Mrs. Vavasor told you how well ana 
healthy she was up in the country air. It was true enough; 
she was well and healthy, but after you were gone, I remem- 


262 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGH.. 


bered how 1 had been treated by Clara^s mother, to say noth- 
ing of the misunderstanding 1 had with Mrs. Vavasor about 
the money I was to receive, so 1 took the children, for my hus- 
band had abandoned me some months before — shiftless, ne^er- 
do-well that he was — and went away as far as 1 could go. 

“ From that time, it was four good years before Madame 
Vavasor heard aught of me or the little ones! But she never 
told you, sir, how it was. She dared not! She kept hoping 
that all would come right in time, and in the meanwhile she 
kept writing to you that Clara was well, and you never mis- 
trusted anything. Besides all this, sir, ever since you were 
married to her daughter, she had hated the child — as some- 
thing that stood between your money and the prospects of 
Miss Marian, and any children she might have. You needn^’t 
believe that 1 didn’t find it hard at times to live in those days, 
but revenge was sweeter to me than all, and I felt that I was 
being revenged both on Mrs. Vavasor and the dead lady who 
was Olara^s mother!’^ 

“ Wretch!’^ broke from Mr. St. Severn^s parched lips, but 
Mrs. Romayne, with an impatient lifting of her linger, went 
on: 

“ Well, sir, Providence, if such a thing as Providence there 
be, orders these matters strangely, and all of a sudden my 
child died — my golden-haired baby, and your Clara lived on! 
That was enough to put another drop of bitterness in my cup, 
and I determined then and there that Clara St. Severn should 
not reap the worldly benefits that my poor little one had never 
tasted. But 1 was poor, and things were all going wrong, so 
1 took the dead child to 3 ^our house in New York, where 1 knew 
Mrs. Vavasor was staying — I had means of knowing all these 
things then — and I told her all. It was she who proposed that 
we should bury the child as the heiress of the St. Severns, and 
never let the other one know that she was not my daughter — 
because, you see, sir, in that interval the news had come of 
Miss Florine^’s birth away over in Italy, and the madame 
couldnT bear the idea of another child stepping in between her 
daughter’s babe and its inheritance. Well, sir, it suited my 
turn, and Mrs. Vavasor paid me generously for it, and I saw 
my way, moreover, to more money when I wanted it, as long 
as she and I shared that secret together. For I had learned 
what it was to want money.” 

And from that point Mrs. Romayne went on with the his- 
tory of the child who had always henceforth passed as her own 
daughter — their wanderings hither and yon, their sufferings, 
privations, and occasional experiences of comparative ease, 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


263 


when Mrs. Vavasor proved unexpectedly generous, up to the 
time when she fled, a bride of an hour old, from her husband 
at Saratoga. 

From that period Mrs. Romayne herself was at fault, and 
the father, just wakened to the joyful consciousness that he 
had received, as it were, a child given back from the dead, 
was once more plunged into doubt, despair, and bewilderment. 

Kerens her picture, said Mrs. Romayne, drawing from 
her pocket a small envelope in which lay the very carte-de- 
visile that Clara had been so astonished by finding among Mrs. 
Vavasor’s possessions; ‘‘I stole it from the madame’s table- 
drawer while I was waiting for her to come in this very morn- 
ing.” 

Eustace St. Severn caught eagerly at the picture, which was 
all there was of tangible reality to the child whose existence 
seemed to him like the clouded glimmerings of a dream, but 
the instant his eyes fell on its pure, delicate outlines, he 
uttered a cry. 

“ Good heavens! it is Florine’s governess, the poor, friend- 
less child whom Mrs. Vavasor’s unkind ness drove away from 
here.” 

For Florine, the warmest and most uncompromising of little 
partisans, had not failed to give her father a long and circum- 
stantial account of all the slights and insults the governess 
had so meekly sustained at Mrs. Vavasor’s hands. 

He rose to his feet, with sparkling eyes and deathly white 
features, and at the instant that he did so, the door-handle 
turned softly, and Mrs. Vavasor tottered into the room, lean- 
ing heavily upon her staff. 

She uttered a short exclamation of dismay as her eyes en- 
countered the tall figure of Mrs. Romayne, standing opposite 
her son-in-law. 

“ Woman!” she croaked, shrilly, you have never dared — ” 

“ 1 told you I should,” sneered Mrs. Romayne, half dis- 
mayed, half exultant, “ and I have told your devil’s schemes. 
He knows it all.” 

“ Eustace,” faltered Mrs. V'avasor, laying her yellow hand 
on Mr. St. Severn’s arm, “you will never believe this false- 
hearted woman?” 

“ 1 don’t ask him to believe my unsupported word,” retofted 
Mrs. Romayne. “I have plenty of proof— your letters, the 
child’s clothes, and, most convincing of all, the bloody heart 
of the St. Severns on her shoulder, where every child boriuof 
the race of the St. Severns has had it for ten generations — the 
birth-mark that never fails them!” 


264 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


Eustace!^’ began Mrs, Vavasor, falteringly, Eustace!^^ 

But he shook of! her hand, as if its touch had been pollution. 
“ Woman!^^ he said, in stern accents, that rang through the 
room like a trumpet, “ where is my child? What has become 
of the poor girl whom, not satisfied with having for years de- 
prived of her birthright, you have finally driven out into the 
world, God in His mercy alone knows where! I demand once 
more, where is she?^^ 

‘‘ But, Eustace, my son — 

“ Never your son again he interrupted her, white to the 
very lips with the storm of furious emotions that struggled 
within him. 

“ Leave my presence! Never let me look upon your face 
again! As one standing on the very verge of the grave — as 
Florine^s grandmother — 1 will not turn you utterly out-of- 
doors; but never appear in my presence more!’^ 

The jewels shook and quivered like drops of molten fire in 
Mrs. Vavasor^s yellow ears; her hands trembled, and she looked 
around her with a wild, imploring gaze. 

“ It was for Pdorine’s sake,^^ she stammered out, “ for Elo- 
rine^s sake! Oh, Sabrina! havenT you a word to say for me? 
Tell him how it was, Sabrina — tell him that you helped me — 
tell him — 

And with the sentence uncompleted on her withered lips, she 
sunk like a glittering pile of brocade and gold on the floor in 
the middle of the room. 

“ See to her, Sabrina, said Mr. St. Severn, with a slight 
movement of his head toward the prostrate heap. “ The very 
air that she breathes seems to oppress me! Oh! if these tid- 
ings should have come too late to rescue my poor wandering 
child from the death which would be but a relief from the cruel 
coldness of the merciless world !^^ 

To Eustace St. Severn, this news had been so entirely unex- 
pected, that at first he found it difficulc wholly to comprehend 
its import, or convince himself that he was not the sport of an 
idle conspiracy, or some foundationless story gotten up by the 
unprincipled housekeeper for the better extortion of money. 
But she herself had evidently been astonished to learn that the 
girl whom she had called daughter for so many years had been 
at Severn^s Tower in the capacity of governess to little Elo- 
rine, nor had his mother-in-law had the hardihood actually to 
deny the accusations hurled at her by the wrathful lips of Sa- 
brina Eowe. 

‘‘ It must be true,^^ he muttered between his dry lips. 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


265 


‘‘ And where, then, is my child? What steps would be most 
effectual to recover her? Where must I begin the search?^^ 

And then, as he remembered that there was not one single 
clew by which to trace the lost daughter of the stately old 
house of the St. Severns, he groaned aloud, feeling the utter 
helplessness of his position, while at the same time the father^s 
love, pent up for so many years, seemed to go forth with a 
blind yearning toward this unseen object. 

His mind, recurring to the scenes over which years had 
thrown the unreal shadows of their misty veil, reproduced once 
more with a vividness belonging more properly to the present, 
the days of his first widowhood, when Marian Vavasor^s inno- 
cent beauty had seemed to help fill up the vacant spot in his 
breast, and then he lived over again the same sharp pain he 
had experienced, the hour in which tidings came of his little 
Clara^s death, and which brought to him the melancholy con- 
sciousness that the last link which bound him to that first fair 
dream of love and wedded happiness was gone. 

Florine was dear to him, with all her artless beauty and 
winsome, affectionate nature; but she was essentially unlike 
the dark-eyed infant who had nestled to his heart when the 
world was new, and life wore its trappings of coiileur cle rose- 
And all his days Eustace St. Severn had kept, as it were, an 
open grave for Clara in his heart, over which the grass and 
daisies of later joys and newer interests had never grown. The 
living child was very dear to him, but the dead cherub was 
treasured in the silence of his inner nature with a far different 
love. And now that he had learned so unexpectedly that she 
was still living, the tide of garnered affection seemed to burst 
through the wall of time, as a mountain spring breaks its way 
through rifts and crevices of living rock. 

No, no — he would not despair. God had kept her for him 
all these years — God would bring her safely to him yet. If 
only he could have faith as a grain of mustard seed! The 
strong, unerring instinct of love would be to his bewildered 
heart what the pole-pointing needle is to the lonely voyager 
across the darkness of midnight seas. It was enough that she 
lived, and that he knew it; no mortal power could long suffice 
to keep them apart. 

As he stood with folded arms, and eyes that looked far be- 
yond the blue ripple of the river, pondering all these things in 
his mind, and trying to resolve within him upon some settled 
path to pursue, without further loss of time, there was a rustle . 
through the overhanging boughs of the thick laurel shrubbery 
which shaded the most direct path down to the water-side, the 


266 


THE BELLE OF SAKATOGA. 


sound of flying footsteps, and the next instant the low growing 
bushes close to him were parted by an eager hand, and Flo- 
rine rushed into the open stretch of closely mown grass, beyond 
which the broad, flagged walks led directly up to the stone 
porch at the north side of the house. 

“ Papa!^^ she cried, panting and breathless, on seeing him. 
“ Papa! come quickly!'^ 

And she caught his arm and dragged him, more by the 
force of her will and anxiety than by any strength that she 
230ssessed, through the shrubberies whence she had emerged. 

“ Florine!^ he cried, eagerly, “ what is the matter?^^ 

But the child ran on before, beckoning him to follow. He 
obeyed, finding it difficult, however, to keep pace with her 
flying footsteps, as she led him down the hill to the little 
house of twisted boughs and gnarled cedar limbs, all inter- 
woven with the hanging sprays of the graceful woodbine, 
which stood close to the shores of the river. 

And as he crossed the threshold, he saw Florine kneeling on 
the floor beside a slender, prostrate figure, whose dark curls, 
falling backward, from the position in which she lay, revealed 
the death-like features of the lost daughter of the house of St. 
Severn. 


CHAPTER XLI. 

MBS. VAVASOR RENDERS UP HER ACCOUNT. 

The sunset, fraught with all the indescribable splendor of 
the Indian summer, was shining into the windows of one of the 
most beautiful apartments at Severny’s Tower, where, on a low, 
luxurious couch, pillowed with eider-down and sheltered around 
with lace draperies, Clara Romayne was lying, insensible to all 
that was passing around her, although she held tightly to Flo- 
rine’s hand, and moaned so piteously when any attempt was 
made to draw it away, that the young girl desisted and sat 
bending over the pillow with her golden hair mingling with 
Clara^s own raven locks, while the restless tossing from side to 
side, the glitter of the almond-shaped eyes, and the crimson 
spot burning upon either marble- pale cheek told the tale of 
fever which had stricken down the young lady as a blithing 
wind strikes a tall, lovely garden flower to the ground. 

‘‘ Yes,^^ said Mrs. Romayne, who had crept on tiptoe into 
the room, and now stood looking at the beautiful face, her own 
partially concealed by the fall of the white dace draperies, 
“ it^s the same one. I thought it must be her the minute I 
caught a glimpse at her as you carried her in, sir. Look!^^ 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


267 


T 

And turning back the lace-edged sleeve of the night-dress 
with which Florine^s tender care, aided by old Mrs. Parker^s 
more substantial suggestions, had robed the former governess, 
Mrs. Komayne pointed to the tiny mark on the ivory-white 
shoulder — the faint outlines of a crimson heart! 

“ The heart of St. Severn!^^ she repeated, in a hushed voice. 
“ Papa,^^ cried Florine, with large blue eyes dilated with sur- 
prise and interest, “ papa, there ^s just such a mark as that on 
my shoulder!’^ 

So there is on the shoulder of every St. Severn, Miss Flo- 
rine, said Mrs. Eomayne, as she folded back the delicate 
robe. “ There^s some Old World story about it, that Mr. St. 
Severn^s nurse, who died twenty years ago, used to tell about 
— let me see — how did it use to go? 

“ ‘ When the Heart of St. Severn ceases to burn, 

The House of St. Severn to dust will return, 

And St. Severn shall be but a funeral urn.’ ” 

“ But, papa,^^ said Florine, “ Why — 

“ My daughter, said Mr. St. Severn, replying to the un- 
spoken question which trembled on her lips, “ the crimson 
heart has told us no lie. The poor child who lies there is one 
of the old house of St. Severn, my oldest daughter, Florine, 
and your sister!^^ 

Florine turned alternately red and pale, but the radiant 
brightness of her face bore witness to the delight with which 
she heard these tidings. 

Then it was for this reason that 1 loved her so dearly, 
she cried, rapturously. “ I used to call her my sister some- 
times in sport — and she really, really is my own born sister! 
Oh, papa! why have 1 not had her by my side always?^^ 

“It is a long story, Florine,^’ her father answered, sadly; 
“ and you shall learn it in time; but hush — is that the doctor 
from Severnsdale? Leave us now, my daughter. Mrs. Par- 
ker will render any necessary service in your te^nporary ab- 
sence. 

Florine withdrew rather unwillingly, first stooping to press 
another passionate kiss upon the lips of the unconscious girl. 

“ Papa,^^ she cried, “ what is this tied round her neck with 
the tiniest velvet ribbon I ever saw? Why, it is a plain gold 
ring!^^ 

But Clara, unconscious otherwise as to all that was going on 
around her, put up her hand, and faintly resisted Florine^s 
endeavor to take the ring. 


26S 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


“ Not that!^^ she wailed; “ don’t take that away! It is all 
1 have left! I will never let it go!” 

Florine relinquished her hold, but still inquired: 

“ What is it, papa?” 

‘‘ Child,” said Mrs. Komayne, who had bent to examine 
the gleaming circlet of gold, “it is her wedding-ring! No 
wonder she clings to it.” 

“ Her wedding-ring? Is my sister married?” eagerly ques- 
tioned the child, a sudden pang of jealousy rising in her heart. 

“ Come away. Miss Florine, child, and Fll tell you all,” 
said Mrs. Romayne, as the old doctor was ushered in, with a 
crowd of curious servants peeping over his shoulder as the 
door was partially opened to admit him. “ I may, sir?” 
glancing at Mr. St. Severn. 

He nodded assent; and Florine, standing breathlessly in the 
library where her father had first learned that he had two liv- 
ing daughters instead of one, heard the story of her sister’s 
strange and romantic life. 

“ I hate you!” cried Florine, passionately, recoiling from 
the woman when she had learned all. “ Stand back from me 
— your touch makes me shudder! Is there no law in the laud 
to punish your wicked crimes? In the old days they would 
have hung you as a witch! I would hang you if 1 could!” 

Mrs. Romayne shrunk back from the scathing torrent of 
the girl’s angry words and the flash of her frank eyes. 

“ How dared you?” went on Florine. “ What kind of a 
heart have you got in your cruel breast? Oh, I wonder God 
let you live, instead of striking you down by a thunder-bolt, or 
letting the earth open to swallow you and your wickedness up! 
There — 1 won’t speak any more,” she added, resolutely turn- 
ing away, “ or I shall say what I may be sorry for!” 

As she turned, with flushed face, and eyes that fairly scin- 
tillated with her unconquerable indignation, she met the 
fascinated, greenish-gray gaze of old Mrs. Vavasor, who had 
stood in the door-way, leaning feebly on her stick, and heard 
her former ^associate’s story, although neither Mrs. Romayne 
nor Florine heard her approach, or knew of her presence, 
until that moment. 

“Florine!” she faltered, “my own daughter’s daughter! 
don’t be hard on me, Florine, it was all for your sake!” 

“ Grandmamma,” said the young girl, “ you are very old 
and weak, and I will not say to you all that I think, but — ” 

She paused a moment, as if endeavoring, as much as possi- 
ble, to control the generous anger within her bosom, and then 
went on: 


THE BELLE OE SARATOGA. 


^69 


“ But I can never love or honor you again, grandmamma.'’^ 

“Florine!^^ gasped the old woman, piteously, “it was not 
wrong — you yourself would have said it was not wrong, if you 
had known how much 1 hated that girl! I tried to kill her, 
Florine, but it was your sake!^^ 

“ Grandmamma! oh, hush, for Heaven^s sake!’^ 

“ For your sake, child — and now you turn upon me!^^ wailed 
Mrs. Vavasor, with shaking head, and accents whose weary 
despair no pen can describe. “ Well, well, it is a thankless, 
ungrateful world, and the sooner Fm out of it the better! 
IVe nothing left to live for, now that you have ceased to love 
me!'’^ 

She looked piteously at Florine, as if hoping that these 
words would awaken one lingering spark of the willful, capri- 
cious affection which had been her greatest happiness, but 
Florine stood cold and moveless as a statue. 

“ You’ll try and love me, child, a little?” she pleaded. 

“ No, grandmamma, never again.” 

The iron will of the St. Severns spoke unmistakably in those 
low, clearly enunciated words, and Mrs. Vavasor, knowing 
that no amount of argument or force of entreaty could now 
avail, turned slowly away. 

“No,” she mouthed and muttered to herself; “ no. There 
isn’t much to live for now, and yet if they would only give me 
time, I would see that Florine should have all the inheritance 
yet. My daughter’s little golden-haired daughter! Why, it’s 
natural that I should work for her. And still she turns away 
from me! Well, she’ll be wiser by and by. Florine is noth- 
ing but a child yet.” 

The sun had long set, leaving an orange-red glow along the 
western sky, and the long corridors of Severn’s Tower were in 
twilight darkness, as the old crone tottered along like a weird 
relic of a dead-and-gone age. 

Just as Agnes, the house-maid, came out of one of the 
rooms opening on the upper hallway, Mrs. Vavasor, groping 
like a blind person, stumbled against her. 

“ Dear heart alive, ma’am!” said the girl, recoiling, “ is it 
yourself, and the lamp not lighted yet?” 

“Agnes!” said the old woman, a little doubtfully. “I 
didn’t see you, Agnes. I think I’m getting blind, or else it’s 
dark early to-night.” 

“ It’s the old eyes of you, ma’am; sure it isn’t dark yet. 
Will 1 lead you?” questioned the girl, in the kindness of her 
heart. 

“No,” snarled Mrs. Vavasor, so fiercely that Agnes 


270 THE BELLE OF SAKATOGA. 

jumped back. “ 1 haven’t quite lost my senses yet, whatever 
you girls would like to think. Go about your own business, 
Agnes, and let other folks alone.” 

Agnes obeyed, rather crest-fallen, and Mrs. Vavasor, chuck- 
ling to herself over the girl’s evident discomfiture, kept on 
her tottering way to the end of the hall toward the door, now 
unused, which had formerly led out upon the covered balcony 
or bridge that connected the octagon tower with the house. 

Whether she had actually, in the fading of her faculties, 
induced by the great shock she had lately received, forgotten 
that neither bridge nor tower longer existed, or whether she 
had mistaken the door for some other through which she 
wished to pass, will never be known. 

But, turning the key in its wards, she opened the door wide, 
and looking fixedly at the twilight sky, just beginning to be 
gemmed here and there by a star, walked deliberately out. 

There was a faint rustling sound through the air — a crash 
as of some falling body descending among the charred beams 
and timbers, and rugged heaps of stone which marked the 
foundation of the destroyed tower — and all that was left of 
Eugenie Vavasor, with her countless plots and conspiracies, 
her restless ambition, and the strong, evil impulses of her god- 
less life, was a senseless, lifeless heap, with a gray face staring 
upward to the frosty glitter of the November firmament. 

She had rendered up her account. 

A few hours afterward Joseph came to request an audience 
of his master, with a pale, scared face, and muscles that quiv- 
ered in spite of himself. 

Sir,” he said, “ something dreadful has happened. Will 
you please to come with me?” 

And leading his master to the ruinous base of the tower, 
where several men stood with lanterns, he pointed to the 
corpse of the deformed old woman. 

‘‘We found her, sir, when Tim, one of the day-laborers, 
was coming to get his dinner-pail from under where the steps 
used to be, and I declare, sir, you could have knocked me down 
with a straw when he told me. Tim had stayed late, sir, with 
his brother, who’s employed about the stables — and she was 
quite cold, sir, when he took hold of her hand by mistake, sir, 
feeling about in the dark for the pail.” . 

“ How has this happened?” demanded Mr. St. Severn, 
looking down on the dead face with the glitter of diamonds at 
throat and ears, and the yellow teeth exposed, as if in fright- 
ful mockery of a smile. 

“ Don’t you see, sir?” said Joseph, pointing upward. “ The 


THE BELLE OF SAKATOGA. 


271 


door from the house is wide open, and it^s our Christian be- 
lief, sir, as the niadame walked out by mistake, and met her 
death that way.’^ 

“ It is not unlikely,’^ said Mr. St. Severn. “ Send one of 
the men immediately to the other shore for the coroner, and 
one of you keep watch here that the corpse may remain undis- 
turbed until his return. You had better remain here, Tim,^^ 
he added, to the staring day-laborer, who had first blundered 
across the grisly mass of stiftening humanity: “ your testi- 
mony will be wanted as a witness.'’^ 

He stood an instant looking down at the dead body ere he 
turned away. He had never either respected or loved this 
woman, although her daughter had been his cherished wife for 
a few of the happiest years in his life. She had wrought him 
much evil. Through the success of her fiendish plots and 
schemes his eldest child had been banished from his house and 
heart for years, and his hearth-stone had been made desolate. 
Therefore, it is hardly strange that, as Eustace St. Severn 
stood there looking at all that remained of her, no pang of 
grief or pity stirred his heart — only a vague sentiment of hor- 
ror at the awful suddenness of her summons to the Bar Al- 
mighty, mingled with relief that he was forever relieved of her 
baleful presence. 


CHAPTER XLII. 

AT HOME. 

When Clara Romayne had stolen away, under the shelter- 
ing cover of the night, from the hotel at Niagara, and, after 
walking some distance, had availed herself of the first passing 
teamster ^s wagon to reach a distant railroad depot, so as to 
evade as nearly as possible the search which she knew to be 
imminent on the discovery of her disappearance, there had 
been but one thought in her poor, fever-racked brain, one 
overmastering determination and desire, to return to Florine 
and die there. Through all the growing bewilderment of her 
mind that one all-absorbing idea loomed up, clear and well- 
defined — Florine^s love, Florine’s unquestioning trust and 
confidence. If she could but reach Severn^s Tower, beyond 
that she looked forward to nothing. 

How she did finally reach it, she herself had afterward but 
a dim and uncertain recollection. The thunder of express 
trains, the bewildering transits, when she followed the crowd, 
with but a vague idea whither she was going, the rattle of the 
engine and long cars beneath the rocky shores which overhang 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


272 

the Hudson Eiver, the final disembarkation at Severnsdale, the 
offer of the last poor little coin in her purse to a ragged boy 
who was paddling himself round the pier in the bland Novem- 
ber sunshine, to induce him to row her over to Severn ^s Island 
— and then her sinking down, wearied unto death and nearly 
unconscious, on the floor of the rustic summer-house, with 
Floriiie^s face appearing suddenly to her like the face of an 
angel. All these things seemed to flit, like the phantasma- 
goria of a vision, across the curtains of her memory, and then 
came a long, weary blank, from which she wakened with 
Florine^s cheek against her own, and Mr. St. Severn sitting 
at the foot of the bed, his eyes fixed upon her with a deep 
longing tenderness she could not comprehend. 

“ Florine,’^ she said, softly, her own voice sounding strange 
and unfamiliar to her, “ Florine, where am 

“ Here, darling, at Severn ^s Island. Look out of the win- 
dow and see the blue river. 

“ But how strange it all looks I’"' 

“ Yes, because the leaves are off the trees. It is almost 
winter now. 

Clara strove to lift her hand. It fell powerless on the cov- 
erlid before her. Florine saw and interpreted her look of ter- 
rified inquiry, and hastened to reply: 

“You have been very sick, love, and you are still weak. 
When you are strong, we will tell you all about it!'’^ 

So day after day crept by, and Clara grew convalescent with 
the rapidity natural to a strong constitution and well-balanced 
temperament. Day by day the roses, beginning faintly to 
bloom on her cheeks, gained depth of glow and color, the 
soft, dewy light began to temper the fevered glitter of her 
large, languid eyes, and the hollow outlines of her face and 
form began to fill up with velvet softness. 

“We might tell her now, papa,^’ urged Florine, with girl- 
ish eagerness to reveal the great, happy secret with which her 
heart was charged. 

‘ ‘ W ait yet a little, my love. Too sudden a shock might 
undo the work of recovery for which we are all so anxious, 
was the reply of Mr. St. Severn, whose happiness in the pos- 
session of his newly found treasure was too profound to allow 
him for a moment to contemplate the merest possibility of a 
relapse. 

But chance finally brought abofft the opportunity for which 
Florine so longed, and this was the way in which it transpired : 

Mrs. Armour, unexpectedly returning from an absence of 
some months in Canada, had been allowed to come to Clara’s 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 273 

bedside and kiss her pale cheek, with many cautions not to 
excite the patient in the least degree. 

“ Hpw pale you are looking, my love I'’ ^ she said, with ten- 
der, tremulous accents;, for, as she looked at Clara, she forgot 
the governess, and only saw Florine'^s sister. “ But 1 am glad 
to hear that you are so much better than you were.'’^ 

“ Oh, much better, dear Mrs. Armour,^'’ said Clara, smil- 
ing. “You see, the only trouble is that they are too careful 
of me. To-morrow 1 am to be dressed and sit up a little 
while. 

“To be sure, my love — only remember not to overexert 
yourself,^^ said Mrs. Armour, wistfully looking from Florine 
to Clara. And then she went away. 

But good Mrs. Armour had by no means a preponderance 
of the cautious element in her nature, and no sooner was a 
partition interposed between herself and the sick-room than 
she forgot all precautions, and Clara could hear her say dis- 
tinctly: 

“ Oh, Eustace, I donT wonder that you are so happy. Your 
daughter — your own, real daughter — and recovering so well, 
too. God has been very merciful to you!^^ 

Clara looked at Florine. 

“ Florine, what does she mean? You have not been sick?^^ 

Florine grew pale, then colored up; she saw that no further 
evasion of the matter was possible. 

“ She means you, darling. 

“ Me? But I am not— 

“ Yes, you are!^^ sobbed Florine, throwing both arms caress- 
ingly round Clara^s neck, and hiding her face on the girFs 
shoulder. “ You are Clara St. Severn, and my own dear, 
dear sister. And you are papal’s eldest daughter, deprived of 
your birthright by that ugly old scarecrow of a Mrs. Komayne, 
who called herself your mother, and — 

“ Stop, Florine, stop!^^ Clara pressed her hand to her fore- 
head. “ I doiiT quite understand all this. Tell it to me a 
little more slowly. 

At this instant Mr. St. Severn, startled by the unusual 
vehemence of Florine^s tone, entered the room. 

“ Papa!’^ cried Florine, eagerly, “ she knows it all! Clara 
knows it!^’ 

Eustace St. Severn stooped and pressed Clara tenderly to 
his heart, murmuring but two words — words that convinced 
Clara without further assurance who she was. 

“ My daughterT^ 

And then, perceiving that any further postponement of the 


274 


THE BELLE OF SAKATOGA. 


truth would probably be more prejudical than a slight present 
excitement, he sat down beside her and told her the whole 
story. 

“ Father she said, in a soft, hesitating voice, as if the 
word were a delicious novelty to her lips, “ father! and Flo- 
rine is my little sister? Oh, it seems too much happiness to be 
real!’^ 

“ Yes,^^ interposed FJorine, who was kneeling beside the 
bed with her cheek against Clara^s hand, and her golden hair 
flowing loosely over the white silk coverlid, “ and you remem- 
ber the portrait in the blue room, Clara. It was no wonder 
it looked like you, for it was your own mamma. 

‘‘ But— 

And Clara changed color, as her eye fell on the golden wed- 
ding-ring which still hung round her neck. 

“ What is it, my daughter?’’ tenderly asked Mr. St. Severn. 

“ Does he know, papa?” 

“No, my daughter, Mrs. Komayne wished to telegraph to 
him at once, but I ordered her to preserve the fact of your 
having returned to us as a strict secret until I had learned 
what you yourself wished in regard to the subject.” 

“ That was good of you, papa.” 

“ But, Clara,” wistfully interposed Florine, “ you love your 
husband, don’t you?” 

“Yes.” 

The color on Clara’s cheek now was softly bright as a crim- 
son cardinal flower. 

“ Then don’t you want to see him?” 

“Not yet. Papa, you will keep my secret a little while 
longer?” pleaded Clara. 

“ It shall be as you wish, my darling,” Eustace St. Severn 
answered. 

“ And is she here now?” 

“ Who? Mrs. Eomayne?” asked her father. 

“Yes.” 

“ Yes, Clara. But she sails for Australia to-morrow, with 
her husband; and when she asked this morning if she might 
venture to come in and bid you adieu before her departure, I 
negatived the proposal, lest the sight of her should prove too 
much for you in your weak state.” 

“ Oh, papa, I am not weak any longer; that’s a mere super- 
stition of yours,” laughed Clara, softly. “ Let her come.” 

“ Now, daughter?” 

“ Yes, now — any time you please.” 

Florine rang the bell, and gave the order that Mrs. Eo- 


THE BELLE OF SAEATOGA. 275 

mayne should be summoned to the room of Miss St. Severn — 
for Clara was not yet dignified with her married title. 

Accordingly she came in — bold, hard-faced, and self-assured 
as ever; but even upon her coarse cheek there burned a slight 
remorseful glow, as she looked upon the lovely, pallid counte- 
nance of the girl whom her treacherous double-dealing had 
brought so near the grave. 

“ Clara, she said, timidly, as she approached the bedside, 
‘‘ Clara, you will not bear malice, will j^ou? I tried to be 
good to you, although — although — 

Her voice died away in her throat. Clara looked at her 
with the serene, pitying expression which we may fancy one 
of God^s angels to wear when they are regarding the faults and 
follies of one belonging to a lower sphere. 

Youfil forgive me, Clara?^^ pleaded Mrs. Eomayne. “ It 
wasn^t altogether my fault; Mrs. Vavasor, you know — 

Yes, 1 know,^^ Clara interrupted here, ‘‘ we need not 
speak of that. I forgive you freely, Mrs. Eomayne. Per- 
haps ill another land, and surrounded by different associations, 
you may do better. 

“ Indeed, indeed, I will try; and he says so, too,^^ faltered 
Mrs. Eomayne. “ Clara, may 1 kiss you before I go? In- 
deed, child, I had learned to love you in the place of her that 
was dead.^^ 

Clara shuddered slightly as Mrs. Eomayne^s lips touched 
hers, but she made no movement to return the caress, and 
Mrs. Eomayne humbly wished her good-bye and crept away, 
actually with tears in her hard black eyes. 

“ She sails for Australia at twelve o’clock to-morrow, with 
that vagabond of a husband of hers,” said Mr. St. Severn, as 
he closed the door behind her heavy tread. 

“I am glad of that,” Clara answered, earnestly. “And 
now, papa, let me sleep a little with your hand on my fore- 
head — so— and, Florine, come and kiss me, to take the shadow 
of that woman’s lips from mine! Oh, papa — Florine — I am 
so happy!” 

She slept long and sweetly, and waked with softly shining- 
eyes, and cheeks flushed with the roseate hue of approaching 
health. 

“ My child,” said Mr. St. Severn, as he came to her bed- 
side and looked lovingly down upon her smiling face, “do 
you know that you are very beautiful?” 

“ Papa,” pouted Florine, “ I shall be jealous if you keep 
all your pretty compliments for Clara. ” 

“ Am I beautiful, papa?” asked Clara, with a low, sweet 


276 


THE BELLE OE SABATOGA. 


laugh. 1 am so glad; I never cared to possess beauty so 
much as I do now. 

“ Why?'^ asked Mr. St. Severn. 

“ Oh/^ Clara answered, shyly, because!^^ 

And that was all the answer she would give. 


CHAPTER XLIII. 

OLD FRIENDS. 

flow pleasant it seemed to Clara Romayne, when, with re- 
turning strength and vigor, she could wander through the 
stately apartments and long, echoing corridors of her old an- 
cestral home, leaning on her father^s arm, and with Elorine 
by her side, for such was the passionate devotion of the child, 
that she could not bear to spare Clara from her sight for even 
a moment! She realized, then, to its fullest extent, that 
health is God’s choicest boon to man, only fully appreciated 
when it has been for a brief while withdrawn. 

Very soon the gray-headed physician, whose pompous air 
and pedantic manner of infolding very trivial meanings within 
countless wrappings of polysyllabic words lent a grave force to 
his most inconsequent sayings, pronounced that Miss St. Sev- 
ern might now be allowed short drives or walks about the 
island, and although it was the first of December, and the 
leaves were white with snow, the girl enjoyed the blue, fresh 
air and the easy motion of the low sleigh, and always came 
back with rosy cheeks, and eyes brilliant with uriwonted hap- 
piness. 

“ Elorine,” she said, one day, to her little sister, as the two 
girls stood in the bay-window removing their wrappings after 
a drive, “do you usually remain at Severn’s Island until as 
late in the season as this?” 

“No,” said Elorine; “ we have never remained any later 
than the first week in November before. But papa is waiting 
for you to get stronger before we go to New York for the win- 
ter. Oh, Clara, you will like the New York house so much, 
and papa knows so many nice people there! And, Clara, 1 
don’t know whether 1 ought to speak of it or not, but 1 heard 
papa and Aunt Grace arranging to have a welcoming party for 
you on the eighteenth!” 

“ Eor me?” Clara’s eyes brightened. “ It is what I should 
most like of anything in the world. ” 

“ Are you so fond of parties, then?” asked Elorine, a little 
wonderingly. 


THE BELLE OF SAKATOGA. 277 

No, not generally; but I think I shall enjoy this one!^^ 
said Clara, musingly. 

“ Uncle Guy will be home to attend it. Aunt Grace ex- 
pects him this week.^’ 

“ Here?^^ questioned Clara, her color involuntarily rising. 
“ In this house?^^ 

“Yes — at Severn^s Tower. But, darling Clara, if you 
would rather not meet him — 

“ No, Florine, donT misunderstand me. Our first meeting 
must necessarily be productive of a little embarrassment on 
both sides, but it can not be avoided, and the sooner it is over 
the better. I like Guy Vavasor very much, Florine. I shall 
never forget his kindness to me when I was sorely in need of 
encouragement.^^ 

She sighed as she spoke, and went upstairs with her fur col- 
lar and velvet cloak on her arm. 

Assisted by Agnes, now promoted to the dignity of Miss St. 
Severn^s own maid, the ceremonial of the toilet was soon over, 
and dismissing her maid, Clara found herself alone, free to in- 
dulge in her own thoughts. 

She sat long before the red shine of the cheerful grate fire, 
and finally, roused by the hall clock striking six, she rose and 
went down-stairs. 

Probably she had never, even in the triumphant reign of 
her belleship in Saratoga, looked more beautiful than she did 
that evening, in a dress of black velvet, whose length of train 
behind swept the carpet like a queen^s robe, while exquisite 
old point lace encircled her neck, and drooped away from her 
beautiful arms, white and faultless, as if they had been 
sculptured in alabaster. Pendant from her ears, and fasten- 
ing the lace at her throat, were branches of scarlet coral, mar- 
velously becoming to her dark, rich style of beauty. Her 
black curls beginning once more to fall on her shoulders, were 
brushed carelessly away from the lovely oval face, whose lan- 
guid eyes, perfect features and rosebud of a mouth, made one 
think of some beautiful Eastern sultana, chosen from a host, 
by right of the royal splendor of her loveliness! 

‘‘ Oh, Clara, how beautiful you look to-night,^^ said Florine, 
artlessly. 

Mr. St. Severn rose to meet his daughter with a smile, 
which expressed quite as much as Florine ^s unpremeditated 
words, and a third occupant of the room came forward to 
claim the right of old acquaintanceship with a deep color on 
his cheeks — it was Guy Vavasor. 

Miss St. Severn, said he, “ let me be one of the first to 


278 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


bid you welcome to your heritage and position, although 1 did 
not know until to-night that my brother-in-law^s restored 
child was one and the same with Miss Smith, the governess of 
some weeks ago! Will you allow me the honor of being one 
of your friends 

“ As one of my old friends Clara answered, gently, 
‘‘ than whom the new can never be more dear!’^ 

“ Eustace is telling me that he intends flitting to New York 
next week,^^ said Guy, trying to speak unconstrainedly, but 
not succeeding remarkably well in the attempt, “ and that 1 
am to stay and assist in the Hegira. 

And he gallantly offered Clara his arm to conduct her into 
the dining-room. 

This rather awkward meeting over, Mr. Vavasor and Clara 
became the best of friends. But as no member of the family, 
except ilorine and her father, had yet been admitted into the 
secret of Clara’s marriage, Mr. Vavasor necessarily remained 
much in the dark as to some of his fair kinswoman’s plans 
and arrangements. The more questions Guy asked, the more 
mysterious grew Mr. St. Severn and Elorine. 

“ Eeally,” said Guy one day, in a tone of some little pique, 
“ you all surround Mademoiselle Clara in a perfect halo of 
mystery. ” 

“You’ll see your way through it some day. Uncle Guy,” 
said Elorine, mischievously, not deeming it exactly proper to 
divulge to him, for she herself had been kept in the dark. 
“We should have told you all about it long ago, only, you 
see, men can’t keep a secret. ” 

And she ran away, delighted at having lodged in her uncle’s 
self-complacency one of the little barbed arrows wherewith he 
delighted to torment her. 

The house on Fifth Avenue did seem a delightful change, 
even from the wintery beauties of Severn’s Island, and Florine 
and Clara lost no time in taking triumphant possession of 
their suites of apartments. It was a strange sensation, and 
not altogether free from melancholy, with which Clara walked 
through the parlors, where she had slept with her head among 
the blossoms on poor little Coralie’s coffin — where, more re- 
cently, she had stood trembling in her own father’s presence, 
waiting for him to pronounce, as it were, her doom. 

The room, too, where the harp stood with its golden wires, 
and “ Herodias’s Daughter ” still smiled from the walls, with 
the ghastly head of John the Baptist in a charger. Clara 
stood within its walls, the tears that sparkled up from mixed 
fountains in her heart betokening the powerful ascendency of 


THE BELLE OF SAKATOGA. 


279 


associations in her nature. Mrs. Armour^ who was standing 
beside her^ placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. 

“ Clara, you remember, my love, that it was here I first 
saw you. 

‘‘ I remember, dear Mrs. Armour, and Clara^s soft eyes, 
shining responsive to Aunt Grace^s wistful glance, spoke more 
eloquently than words could have done. 

‘‘ I shall always love that violet room,^^ she said, gently. 

But the first expedition that she took with her father and 
Florine was to the little picture-frame store on Sixth Avenue. 

It was a bright December day, the last relics of the snow 
resolving their vanishing banks to muddy currents in gutter 
and pavement, when little Joe Pinner ran into the back room, 
where his parents were at dinner, in a perfect maze of aston- 
ishment. 

‘‘Papa!^^ he cried, “there’s the splendidest carriage you 
ever did see at the door, and two coachmen with black velvet 
bands on their hats, and Miss Smith, and — ” 

“ What does the boy mean, Amelia?” demanded Mr. Pin- 
ner, staring helplessly at his better half. 

“ I am sure 1 haven’t the least idea, Joseph,” was Mrs. 
Pinner’s equally bewildered reply. “ Perhaps you had better 
go and see.” 

So honest Joe put the baby, whom he was feeding on soaked 
crackers and milk, back in the maternal arms, and brushed 
the crumbs from his mustache, turned down the sleeves of 
his coat, and vanished into the store. 

“ Mamma!” said Mary Pinner, striving, by dint of stand- 
ing on her tiptoe, to peep over her mother’s shoulder, through 
the curtained glass door, into the realm of picture-frames and 
carved brackets beyond, “ who do you suppose it is?” 

“ 1 don’t know, I’m sure, child,” Mrs. Pinner answered, 
shifting the heavy baby from side to side; “ but I hope to 
goodness it’s a customer; for, what with taxes being so high, 
and meat two cents more on a pound, and the children’s grow- 
ing so beyond all calculation, your father’s afraid he’ll be left 
behindhand with his rent this quarter, and no wonder, for — ” 

She checked herself suddenly with a little cry. 

“ My gracious sakes alive; it is Mary Smith!” 

And, forgetting all in the joyful excitement of her sudden 
recognition, the picture-frame maker’s wife darted through 
the curtained door, with the baby hanging over her shoulder, 
and precipitated herself into Clara’s arms. 

“ Mary, Mary Smith! you dear little darling, and where on 


280 


THE BELLE OF SAKATOGA. 


earth have you been all this while, and why haven^t you writ- 
ten to us, so anxious as weVe been, and — 

But here Mrs. Pinner caught a glimpse of the stately gen- 
tleman, with the jetty hair streaked with silver, and the sad 
eyes, on whose arm was hanging a beautiful little girl, in blue 
velvet and ermine furs, and checked herself suddenly in blush- 
ing confusion. 

‘‘Not Mary Smith any longer, madame,^^ said Eustace St. 
Severn, with that courteous, chivalric air which pervaded him, 
as it might have pervaded Chevalier Bayard, whenever he 
spoke to aught having the semblance of a woman; “but my 
daughter, Clara St. Severn."^ 

“ This is my father, Mrs. Pinner, said Clara, smiling, in 
the fullness of her happy pride, as she drew the confused little 
woman forward; “ and here is my sister Florine, who has heard 
ail about how good you were to me when I had so few friends 
to turn to. Ah, you may well look surprised, she added, 
laughing, “ for I have myself hardly ceased to wonder at it. 
ITl tell you all about it when you come to see me, which you 
must do to-morrow, you and all the children, and Mr. Pinner 
must come to dinner.'’^ 

“ Well, I never!^^ cried the buxom matron; “ and to think 
how well you are looking, and how your eyes sparkle; and it 
was only last week we got a letter from Mother Pinner, and 
she asked all about you, and whether we’d heard from you; 
and 1 was saying to Joe how bad mother’d feel when she heard 
there was no news. And such a pieced bed-quilt as she sent 
us! If you could only see it — but,” added Mrs. Pinner, 
slightly coloring at her own presumption, “ 1 hardly dare to 
ask you to step into our little bedroom — ” 

“ But I shall step in there without any asking,” said Clara, 
laughing, as she proceeded to act upon her words. “ How 
natural it looks here! Oh, Mrs. Pinner, you were very good 
to me in those days.” 

And to Mrs. Pinner’s amazement, Clara began to cry upon 
her friendly shoulder. 

“ Don’t mind me, Amelia,” she said, smiling through the 
bright drops, at Mrs. Pinner’s disturbed face; “ it isn’t be- 
cause I am unhappy — it is not, indeed!” 

When Clara once more resumed her seat in the carriage, it 
was piled full of all manner of things, which Elorine had 
culled out of Mr. Joseph Pinner’s select assortment of wares 
— picture-frames, brackets, carved vignette-stands, little cray- 
ons barbarously mounted in gilt, wooden salad-knives^ and 
boxes of every possible shape and description. 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 281 

‘‘Why, Florine!’^ she cried, laughingly, “where did all 
these things come from?^^ 

“ I bought them!^^ said Florine, triumphantly. “ I did so 
want to do something for that nice apple-faced little man — 
and Fm sure they are all very pretty. 

“ Florine has not the least idea what she is to do with 
them,^^ said Mr. St. Severn, smiling. 

“ Papa,’"’ cried Florine, audaciously, “you haven^t any- 
thing to say, for you have ordered a whole set of black walnut 
cornices, and brocatelle curtains for the dining-room, from 
Mr. Pinner— I heard you; and it was only last spring it was 
entirely refurnished. Clara, isn’t he as bad as lam?” 

“ As good as you are, I should say,” Clara answered, lean- 
ing forward to give her father a grateful kiss. “ I am sure 
the Pinners will be thankful for your kindness, and they cer- 
tainly deserve it.” 

But this was not the only surprise which Clara Romayne 
had the delight of giving those who had befriended her in the 
darkest hours of her life. 

Mrs. Guilford Bracy was brushing out her blonde curls 
one morning before the mirror, when a servant came to her 
room, in the very boarding-house where she had first engaged 
the pretty “ companion,” whose story was so involved in mys- 
tery. 

“ Please, mem, there’s a girl wants to see you.” 

“A girl, Margaret? Some one from the dress-maker’s, 1 
suppose. Well, show her up.” 

And in a minute or two our old friend Agnes presented her- 
self, with a card on which was written the name “ Mary Dal- 
ton,” and the words penciled directly underneath. “ Presents 
her compliments to Mrs. Bracy; and will be happy to see her 
to-day, at twelve, at No. — Fifth Avenue.” 

“Miss Dalton!” repeated Mrs. Bracy, staring at Agnes. 
“ No. — Fifth Avenue! Why, that is the house that belongs 
to the rich Mr. St. Severn, isn’t it?” 

“ Yes, ma’am,” said Agnes; “ Miss Dalton would be glad 
of an answer, ma’am, please.” 

“ Tell her I’ll come,” said Mrs. Bracy. 

“ And,” added Agnes, “ she wished me to say it was to be 
strictly confidential.” 

“ Oh, of course,” said Mrs. Bracy, “ I’ll remember.” 

Clara was sitting in the violet room reading when Mrs. 
Guilford Bracy, a little awed and subdued by the splendors 
that surrounded her and the solemn aspect of the man in 
black who had opened the door to her, entered; but her wel- 


282 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA, 


coming smile and kiss set the little widow at her ease imme- 
diately. She was dressed in a simple morning-robe of white 
merino, widely faced and bordered with apple-green velvet and 
buttoned, with emeralds, while a wide green velvet ribbon was 
knotted after a picturesque sash fashion half-way down the 
skirt of her dress. 

“ Well,'^ cried Mrs. Guilford Bracy, after the first burst of 
kisses and congratulations was over, “ I must say, Mary Dal- 
ton, I was never so surprised in my whole life as when I re- 
ceived your card to-day. 

“Not even when 1 ran away from you?’’ asked Clara, 
archly. 

“Well, 1 was surprised then, too; but tell me, how came 
you hero among the grandest people in the city? Are you 
living here?” 

“Yes.” 

“ As companion?” 

Clara laughed. 

“ Yes, somewhat in that capacity.” 

“But,” pursued Mrs. Bracy, “ don’t you find them very 
haughty? The St. Severn s are called the proudest people in 
society; not that I believe in such aristocratic distinctions for 
my part, but when people have wealth and lineage, and live 
so very exclusively, we can’t keep up our democratic notions 
concerning them.” 

“ I do not find them disagreeable,” said Clara. 

“ And is Mr. St. Severn so handsome and interesting as I 
have heard?” 

“ He is very handsome and very interesting.” 

“ And his pretty daughter — you are her companion, proba- 
bly?” went on Mrs. Bracy. 

“Would you like to be introduced to her?” said Clara, 
touching a small silver bell. 

“ Yes,” laughed Mrs. Bracy, a little nervous, nevertheless, 
“ if she will speak to a plebeian like me.” 

“ Agnes,” said Clara to the servant, “ send Miss Florine 
here. ” 

And presently Florine entered, with her long golden hair 
hanging about her shoulders, and her eyes sparkling with 
sweet welcome as Clara said, quietly: 

“ Florine, this is Mrs. Guilford Bracy.” 

“ I am so glad to see you, Mrs. Guilford Bracy!” said 
Florine, eagerly, “for I have heard all about how good you 
were to my sister. ” 

“ To your sister?” 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


285 

‘‘ Yes; hasiiH Clara told you that she was my sister?^’ 

Mrs. Guilford Bracy was genuinely surprised at last. 

“Mary Dalton!^^ she cried, half laughing, half crying, 
“ have you been deceiving me all this time? Are you really 
Miss St. Severn? Or — 

But Clara silenced all further questioning by taking the lit- 
tle widow caressingly in her arms and whispering to her the 
clew to all this labyrinth of mystery. 

And when at length Florine left them, Clara ventured to 
ask, with heightened color and eyes shyly veiled by their long 
lashes: 

“ And Mr. Lennox, Mrs. Bracy — where is he?^'’ 

“Why, don^t you know, child? Of course he is in town. 
But you don^t mean to tell me he is in ignorance of all this?^^ 

“Yes.^^ 

“ But, my dear, isn^t he your husband ?^^ 

“ I suppose so.^^ 

“ And doesn^t he love you more dearly than ever yet man 
loved woman? It^s a shame, Mary Dalton — I mean Clara St. 
Severn— or, perhaps, 1 ought rather to say Mrs. Lennox, 
added the widow, in some perplexity. 

“ Listen to me, Mrs. Bracy, said Clara, with the lambent 
shadow of a smile around her lips: '‘Ido believe that he 
loves me now — that he has learned to love me, even while he 
thought that he was wedded to the child of an unprincipled 
adventuress. Had I been able to believe this before it might 
have saved us both many a sad hour, and many a bitter heart- 
pang. But now I wish to wait until I can meet him on his 
own ground — the acknowledged daughter of a house fully the 
equal of his own in lineage, wealth, and station. My father 
has invited a number of guests to his house to-morrow even- 
ing, and Mr. Lennox and yourself are among the list. You 
will come? 1 have kept back your card until now, that I 
might myself have the pleasure of giving it to you. 

Mrs. Bracy flushed high with delighted satisfaction. A 
card of invitation to the St. Severns was like the gold key 
which unlocks the gates of the seventh heaven of society, and 
Mrs. Guilford Bracy had worshiped “ society all her days. 

“ I shall be delighted,^^ she said, “ and most truly. 

“Mr. Lennox has received his card some time since; for 
papa understands my wishes, and has consulted them in every 
respect, and — 

“ But he does not go out since this last terrible disappoint- 
ment at Niagara,^ ^ interrupted Mrs. Bracy. “ I doubt if be 
will accept your invitation/^ 


284 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


“He mvst/^ said Clara, smiling quietly. “And 1 want 
you, Mrs. Bracy, to make sure of this. Request him, as a per- 
sonal favor, to accompany you hither. 1 will promise,^’ she 
added, laughingly, “ not to be jealous again. 

Mrs. Bracy was a little conscience-stricken; but she prom- 
ised to do her best. 

“ If it is within the power of any live mortal to bring.him, 
ril do it,^^ she asserted, as she took her leave of Miss St. Sev- 
ern. “ But, oh, dear, what have I got to wear?^^ 

“ The lavender satin, with the quilting of thread lace,^^ 
laughed Clara. “ I do not think I shall ever forget that dress, 
Mrs. Bracy. 

And they parted. 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

UNITED AT LAST. 

The St. Severn house was in a glow of light from base- 
ment to upper story on the night of the eighteenth of Decem- 
ber. Carpets were spread on the pavement, and a light awn- 
ing drawn from the steps to the curbstone, protected all the 
guests from any possibility of inconvenience from the in- 
clemency of the weather; while within, the sober belongings 
and accessories of every-day life seemed transfigured into the 
glow and glitter of fairy-land. 

For Wealth buys Beauty, and Beauty can turn the world 
into a dream of paradise. 

The draperies which separated the suite of apartments had 
all been taken away, and the slender columns of marble, 
wreathed with flowers and glossy, tropical trails of foliage, 
seemed rather to relieve than interfere with the progress of 
the eye, as it moved down the long rooms, decorated with pict- 
ures and statues, and costly bronzes, finally arresting itself at 
the conservatory beyond, where the murmuring of a softly 
dripping fountain was lost in the merry music discoursed by 
the full band. Without, the bitter air of a December night 
was full of sleet and driving snow and tempest — within this 
fairy nook, the colored lights glowed like red and violet and 
amber moons, while the white-starred jasmine and daphne, 
and the blue chalices of the royal passion flowers seemed to 
droop and tremble in the languid perfume of the sultry air. 

It was nearly midnight, and the guests had most of them 
arrived. Mr. 8t. Severn was in the picture-gallery, exhibiting, 
with all the pride of a connoisseur, his gems to a party of 
European friends. Mrs. Armour, Florine and Clara were 


THE BELLE OF SAKATOGA. 


285 


at the lower end of the rooms, still engaged in receiving their 
■ friends, most of whom were strangers to the latter. Florine 
was dressed in simple white muslin, without an ornament, and 
wearing a knot of blue violets in her golden hair; and Mrs. 

' Armour^s dress of black satin was almost equally plain. But 
Clara had selected a dress which made people say instinctive- 
ly as they passed her: 

“ How like a bride Miss St. Severn looks to-night!’^ 

Nor was the oft-repeated remark inappropriate. 

Clara’s dress was of white satin, identically like that in 
which, four months ago, she had stood at the altar beside 
Philip Lennox. White flowers, wreathed in among her pur- 
ple-black curls, drooped over her left shoulder in long feathery 
sprays, and a cordon of pearls round her pure white throat 
corresponded with the pearl drops in her ears and the pearl 
bracelet on her wrist. 

A single white rose was fastened in her bosom, and upon 
the third finger of her left hand, worn for the first time since 
her marriage- day, shone the yellow circlet of her wedding-ring! 

‘‘ Clara,” Mrs. Armour had said, with a perplexed look, 
when first they came down-stairs, “ I never saw you wear that 
ring before.” 

“ I have taken a fancy to wear it to-night!” the girl an- 
swered, carelessly. 

“ But you should change it to some other finger — that is 
the wedding finger. What will people think?” protested 
Aunt Grace. 

“ I’ll draw my glove over it, ma’am,” said Clara, quietly, 

and then it will matter little which finger it is on.” 

And she had persisted in wearing the ornament which looked 
so singularly like a wedding-ring. 

It was but a few minutes before the hour fixed for supper 
when Agnes made her way skillfully through the crowd, aiid 
whispered in her mistress’s ear: 

Mrs. Guilford Bracy has just come, ma’am.” 

Clara crimsoned, and grew pale; she felt that the moment 
of her destiny was close at hand, but she never for an instant 
lost her self-possession. 

“ Did you inform Mr. St. Severn of her arrival. Agues?” 
she asked, quietly adjusting the tasseled fastening of her 
glove. 

“ Yes, ma’am.” 

“ Very well.” 

With a whispered word or two of excuse to Mrs. Armour, 
Clara left the thronged suite of rooms, and crossing a vesti- 


28 G 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


bule, entered a side apartment, whose chandelier, so totally 
hidden with wreaths of roses and acacia that the jets of flame 
seemed to spring direct from a bank of blossoms, illumined a 
scene of refreshing stillness and quietude. 

The low, clear lire burned softly on the marble hearth, and 
an open book lay on the sofa, while upon the center-table a 
marble statue of Diana the Huntress, on its velvet pedestal, 
seemed to keep vigilant guard with uplifted bow and quiver, 
on the hushed and fragrant silence. 

As she entered, Clara glanced at the broad mirror, framed 
in green enamel leaves, to imitate the spontaneous growth of 
trailing ivy garlands and the face and form of surpassing 
beauty which she saw reflected there could scarcely fail to re- 
assure her. 

She stood there, beautiful as a poet^s dream, with the soft 
brilliance of her eyes veiled by long, drooping lashes, and a 
faint rose-glow in her cheeks, while her satin dress swept round 
her with an uncertain, glimmering sheen resting on its folds, 
and upon her ungloved left hand shone the bridal ring. 

And, as she listened to the coming footsteps in the corridor, 
and recognized another footfall beside that of her father — the 
footfall for which she had so often listened in girlish, breath- 
less happiness, a new loveliness stole like some subtle, electric 
thrill into her whole being, shining in her eyes and lending 
luster to the faint delicate crimson on her cheek. 

Clara Romayne had been lovely before, now she seemed 
almost supernaturally beautiful, in her perfect outlines and 
a^stic coloring. To her, trial had been what the stern old 
lapidary is to the diamond — a heightening, perfecting agent. 

She started a little and changed color slightly, as Philip 
Lennox’s quiet, deep-toned voice sounded in the hall without. 

“ Yes,” he said, apparently in answer to some remark made 
by Mr. St. Severn, “ I have lived rather a hermit’s life of 
late, but I learned to-night for the first time some particulars 
of the romantic story of the daughter whom God has brought 
back to you after so many years of separation. Allow me to 
offer my sincerest congratulations on Miss St. Severn’s restora- 
tion to her home and friends.” 

“ Thank you,” said Mr. St. Severn, and from the tone of 
his voice, Clara could divine that he had paused momentarily 
in the vestibule. And you also have suffered a loss equal to 
that under which I have mourned for so many years. Let us 
hope that you, too, eventually may recover the treasure with- 
held from you for a brief interval of time.” 

“ Pardon me, sir; but 1 am not yet able to discuss the sub- 


THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 


287 


ject calmly/^ said Philip Lennox, evidently striving to speak 
with composure. Then, as if to change the topic, & went on 
rapidly: “ As I mentioned to you, I was not previously aware 
that I was to have the pleasure to-night of being introduced to 
Miss St. Severn. 

His companion made no reply to this remark, but throwing 
open the door, motioned for him to enter. 

At the same instant Clara Romayne came forward in the 
bridal white in which he had once before beheld her, her 
lovely face slightly flushed, and her coral lips parted with a 
smile, whose welcoming softness was strangely akin to tears. 

“ Philip she said, as he stood paralyzed, and, as it were, 
stricken dumb with astonishment. “ Philip, my husband 

The tremulous words, so freighted with delicious meaning, 
seemed to break the spell which had hitherto bound him to 
the spot whereon he stood, and folding her to his breast, he 
murmured : 

‘‘ Oh, Clara, my wife! Henceforward I will never let you 
go from me, until death comes to claim one or the other of 
us.-’^ 

Well, what matters it what they said, or how their mutual 
explanations unraveled the riddle, whose dark web of mystery' 
had so long blighted their lives, or how he convinced her that 
his heart had been hers, and hers only, for all this time. 
Everybody knows that these things are interesting to lovers, 
and lovers only. Why linger over the pages of life that were 
so bright in the unfolding? Instead, let us close at once the 
book, and leave them together in their happiness! 


THE END. 



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without it. 


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200 JAMES PYLE. New York. 


W. L DOUeiAS )3 SHOE FOR OENTLEMEN. 


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$ 5.00 

Genuine Hand- 
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Hand-Sewed 
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$ 3.50 

Police and 

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$ 3.50 

Extra Value 

Calf Shoe. 

$ 3.35 

Workingman's 

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$ 3.00 

Goodwear Shoe. 



FOR 

LADIES. 

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Best Dongola. 

$ 3.00 

Extra Value 
for tlie price. 

For MISSES. 

For Boys and 
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W. li. Doiiglai* Shoes for <^eiitleiiien are made in Congress, Button and 
Lace, sized 5 to 11, includinar half sizes and widths, and all styles of toe. Boys 
sized 1 to T) 1-2, and youth’s 11 to 18 1-2. also half sizes in each. ^ 

W . li. Douglas $3 S^hoe for liadies. Sizes 1 to 7, and half sizes; B, C. D, 
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Shoe for Tiudies. Sizes 1 to 7. including half sizes; C, D, E, and EE widths. 
W. li. Doug1a*!i S1.T5 Shoe for i>n!<$e!^. ll to 2 and half sizes, regular and 
spring heels. „ . ^ 

W. L. Pouglas’s name and the price are stamped on bottom of all shoes, and 
evei'v pair ai’e warranted. Send name and address on postal card for valu- 
sible information. W. li. DOUC’lLi AS, Brockton, Mass. 


LIBRARY of AMERICAN AUTHORS. 


TO BE ISSUED NOVEMBER 29: 

NO. 26, 

MANCH. 


By mbs. MARY E. BRYAN. 
Price 25 Cents. 


NO. PRICE. 

25 THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 

By Lucy Randall Oomfort... 25 

24 HAZEL KIRKE. By Marie 
Walsh 25 

23 LOVE AND JEALOUSY. By 
Lucy Randall Comfort 25 

22 THE BRIDE OF MONTE- 
CRISTO. A Sequel to “ The 
Count of Monte-Cristo ” 25 

21 SWORN TO SILENCE: or, 
Aline Rodney’s Secret. By 
Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller — 25 

20 MURIEL; or, Because op His 
Love for Her. By Christ iue 

Carlton 25 

19 MARRIED FOR MONEY. By 

Lucy Randall Comfort 25 

18 LAUREL VANE; or, The Girls’ 
Conspiracy. By Mrs. Alex. 
McVeigh Miller 25 

17 VENDETTA; or, The Southern 
Heiress. By Lucy Randall 
Comfort 25 

16 LITTLE ROSEBUD'S LOVERS; 

OR, A Cruel Revenge. By 
Laura Jean Libbey 25 

15 A STRUGGLE FOR A HEART; 

OR, Crystabel’s Fatal Love. 

By Laura Jean Libbey 25 


NO. PRICE. 


14 ALL FOR LOVE OF A FAIR 
FACE ; OR, A Broken Be- 
trothal. By Laura Jean Lib- 
bey 25 

13 UNCLE NED'S WHITE CHILD. 

B 3 ’^ Mrs. Mary E. Bryan 25 

12 IDA CHALONER’S HEART; or. 
The Husband’s Trial. By 

Lucy Randall Comfort 25 

11 JUNIE’S LOVE-TEST. By Lau- 
ra Jean Libbey 25 

10 LEONIE LOCKE; or, The Ro- 
mance OF A Beautiful New 
York Working - Girl. By 

Laura Jean Libbey 25 

9 SAINTS AND SINNERS. By 

Marie Walsh 25 

8 MADOLIN RIVERS. By Laura 

Jean Libbey 25 

7 LIZZIE ADRIANCE. By Mar- 
garet Lee 25 

6 MARRIAGE. By Margaret Lee 25 
5 THE HEIRESS OF CAMERON 
HALL. By Laura Jean Libbey 25 


4 DAISY BROOKS. By Laura 


Jean Libbey 25 

3 SHADOW AND SUNSHINE. By 

Adna H. Lightner 25 

2 THE ROCK OR THE RYE. 

(Comic). By T. C. DeLeon ... 25 
1 MY OWN SIN. By Mrs. Mary 
E. Bryan 25 


Others will follow at short intervals. 


The above works are for sale by all newsdealers, or will be sent by mail on 
receipt of the price. Address 

G110E.GE MUNTRO, Mmiro’s Publishing House, 

CP. O. Box 3751.) 17 to 27 Vandewater Street, NTew Y'ork. 


Old Sleutli liibrary. 


A Series of the Most Thrilling Detective Stories Ever Published! 


ISSUED QUARTERIiY 

1 Old Sleuth, the Detective 10c 


2 The King of the Detectives — 10c 

3 Old Sleuth’s Triumph (1st half) 10c 

3 Old Sleuth’s Triumph (2d half) 10c 

4 Under a Million Disguises (1st 

Half 10c 

4 Under a Million Disguises (2d 

half 10c 

5 Night Scenes in New York 10c 

6 Old Electricity, the Lightning 

Detective 10c 

7 The Shadow Detective (1st half) 10c 

7 The Shadow Detective (2d half) 10c 

8 Red-Light Will, the River De- 

tective (1st half) 10c 

8 Red-Light Will, the River De- 

tective (2d half) 10c 

9 Iron Burgess, the Government 

Detective (1st half) 10c 

9 Iron Burgess, the Government 

Detective (2d half) lOc 

10 The Brigands of New York (1st 

half) 10c 

10 The Brigands of New York (2d 

half) 10c 

11 Tracked by a Ventriloquist 10c 

12 The Twin Shadowers 10c 

13 The French Detective 10c 

14 Billy Wayne, the St. Louis De- 

tective 10c 

15 The New York Detective 10c 

16 O’Neil McDarragh, the Detect- 

ive; or. The Strategy of a 
Brave Man 10c 

17 Old Sleuth in Harness Again... 10c 

18 The Lady Detective 10c 

19 The Yankee Detective lOc 

20 The Fastest Boy in New York. . 10c 

21 Black Raven, the Georgia De- 

tective 10c 

22 Night-hawk, the Mounted De- 

tective 10c 

23 The Gypsy Detective 10c 

24 The Mysteries and Miseides of 

New York 10c 

25 Old Terrible 10c 

26 The Smugglers of New York Bay 10c 

27 Manfred, the Magic Trick De- 

tective 10c 

28 Mura, the Western Lady De- 

tective 10c 

29 Mons. Armand ; <y. The French 

Detective in New York 10c 

30 Lady Kate, the Dashing Female 

Detective (1st half) 10c 

30 Lady Kate, the Dashing Female 

Detective (2d half) 10c 

31 Hamud, the Detective 10c 

^ The Giant Detective in France 

(1st half) 10c 


32 The Giant Detective in France 

(2d half) 10c 

33 The American Detective in 

Russia lOc 

34 The Dutch Detective 10c 

35 Old Puritan, the Old-Time Yan- 

kee Detective (1st half) 10c 

35 Old Puritan, the Old-Time Yan- 

kee Detective (2d half) 10c 

36 Manfred’s Quest; or. The Mys- 

tery of a Trunk (1st half). . . 10c 

36 Manfred’s Quest; or. The Mys- 

tery of a Trunk (2d half) 10c 

37 Tom Thumb; or. The Wonderful 

Boy Detective (1st half) 10c 

37 Tom Thumb; or. The Wonderful 

Boy Detective (2d half) 10c 

38 Old Ironsides Abroad (1st half). 10c 

38 Old Ironsides Abroad (2d half). 10c 

39 Little Black Tom ; or. The Ad- 

ventures of a Mischievous 
Darky (1st half) 10c 

39 Little Black Tom; or. The Ad- 

ventures of a Mischievous 
Darky (2d half) 10c 

40 Old Ironsides Among the Cow- 

boys (1st half) 10c 

40 Old Ironsides Among the Cow- 

boys (2d half) 10« 

41 Black Tom in Search of a Fa- 

ther; or, the Further Advent- 
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(1st half) 10c 

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ther ; or, the Further Advent- 
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(2d half) lOe 

42 Bonanza Bardie; or, the Treas- 

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42 Bonanza Bardie; or, the Treas- 

ure of the Rockies (2d half). . 10c 

43 Old Transform, the Secret Spe- 

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43 Old Transform, the Secret Spe- 

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44 The King of the Shadowers (1st 

half) 10c 

44 The King of the Shadowers (2d 

half) 10c 

45 Gasparoni, the Italian Detect- 

ive; or, Hide-and-Seek in 
New York 10c 

46 Old Sleuth’s Luck 10c 

47 The Irish Detective 10c 

48 Down in a Coal Mine 10c 

49 Faithful Mike, the Irish Hero.. 10c 

To be issued Sept. 1S90: 

50 Silver Tom the Detective; or. 

Link hy Link 10c 


A handsome catalogue containing complete and classified lists of oZZOeorgb 
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The above books are for sale by* all newsdealers, or will be sent to any ad- 
dress, postage prepaid, on receipt of 12 cents each. Address 

GEORGE MUN’ItO. lllniivo’s Publishing Hoiise,^ 

(P. O. Box 3751.) if to 27 Vandpwtiter Street, New \ ork. 



pikaif. 


NacMolgende Werke sind in der 

1 Der Kaiser von Prof. G. Ebers 20 

2 Die Somosierra von R. Wald- 


rattller 10 

8 Das Geheimniss der alten Mam- 
sell. Roman von E. Marlitt. 10 

4 Quisisana von Fr. Spielhagen 10 

5 Gartenlauben - Bliithen von E. 

Werner 20 

6 Die Hand der Nemesis von E. 

A.Konig 20 

T Amtmann’s Magd v. E. Marlitt 20 

8 Vineta von E. Werner 20 

9 Auf der Riimmingsburg von M. 

Widdern 10 

10 Das Hans Hillel von Max Ring 20 

11 Gliickauf ! von E. Werner 10 

12 Goldelse von E. Marlitt 20 

13 Vater und Sohn von F. Lewald 10 

14 Die Wiirger von Paris von C. 

Vacano 20 

15 Der Diamantschleifer von Ro- 

sentlial-Bonin 10 

16 Ingo und Ingraban von Gustav 

Freytag 20 

17 Eine Frage von Georg Ebers. . 10 

18 Im Paradiese von Paul Heyse 20 

19 In beiden Hemispharen von 

Sutro 10 

20 Gelebt undgelitten von H. Wa- 

cheniiusen 20 

21 Die Eichhofs von M. von Rei- 

chenbach 10 

22 Kinder der Welt von P. Heyse. 

Erste Halfte 20 

22 Kinder der Welt von P. Heyse. 

ZweiteHSlfte 20 

23 Barfiissele von Berthold Auer- 

bach 10 

24 Das Nest der ZaunkOnige von 

G. Freytag 20 

25 Fi-ilhlingsboten von E, Werner 10 

26 Zelle No. 7 von Pierre Zacone 20 

27 Die junge Frau v. H. Waclien- 

husen 20 

28 Buchenheim von Th. v. Varn- 

biiler 10 

29 Auf der Balm des Verbrechens 

V. Ewald A. Konig 20 

30 Brigitta von Berth. Auerbach.. 10 

31 Im Schillingshof v. E. Marlitt 20 

82 Gesprengte Fesseln v. E. Wer- 
ner 10 

33 Der Heiduck von Hans Wa- 

chenhusen 20 

34 Die Sturmhexe von Grafln M. 

Keyserling 10 

35 Das Kind Bajazzo’s von E. A. 

Konig 20 

36 Die Bruder vom deutschen 

Hause von Gustav Freytag. . 20 

37 Der Wilddieb v. F. Gerstacker 10 

38 Die Verlobte von Rob. Wald- 

miiller 20 

89 Der Doppelganger von L. 

Schiickmg 10 


„ Deutschen Library*' erschienem 


40 Die weisse Frau von Greifen- 

stein von E. Fels 20 

41 Hans und Grete von Fr. Spiel- 

hagen 10 

42 Mein Onkel Don Juan von H. 

Hopfen 20 

43 Markus Konig v. Gustav Frey- 

tag 20 

44 Die schonen Amerikanerinnen 

von Fr. Spielhagen 10 

45 Das grosse Loos v. A. Konig. . 20 

46 Zur Eh re Gottes von Sacher 

und Ultimo v. F. Spielhagen 10 

47 Die Geschwister von Gustav 

Freytag 20 

48 Bischof und Konig von Mariam 

Tenger und Der Piratenko- 
nig von M. Jokai 10 

49 Reichsgrafin Gisela v. Marlitt 20 

50 Bewegte Zeiten v.Leon Alexan- 

, drowitsch 10 

51 Um Ehre und Leben von E. A. 

Konig 20 

52 Aus einer kleinen Stadt v. Gu- 

stav Frey tag 20 

53 Hildegard von Ernst v.Waldow 10 

54 Dame Orange von Hans Wa- 

chenhusen 20 

55 Johannisnacht von M. Schmidt 10 

56 Angela von Fr. Spielhagen... 20 

57 Falsche Wege von J. v. Brun- 

Barnow 10 

58 Versunkene Welten von Wilh. 

Jensen 20 

59 Die Wohnungssucher von A. 

von Winterfeld 10 

60 Eine Million von E. A. Konig 20 

61 Das Skelet von F. Spielhagen 

und Das Frolenhaus von Gu- 
stav zu Putlitz 10 

62 Soil und Haben v. G. Freytag. 

Erste Halfte 20 

62 Soil und Haben v. G. Freytag. 

Zweite Halfte 20 

63 Schloss Griinwald von Char- 

lotte Fielt 10 

64 Zwei Kreuzherren von Lucian 

Herbert 20 

65 Die Erlebnisse einer Schutzlo- 

sen V. Kath. Sutro-Schiicking 10 

66 Das Haideprinzesschen von E. 

Marlitt 20 

67 Die Geyer-Wally von Wilh. von 

Hillern .' 10 

68 Idealisten von A. Reinow 20 

69 Am Altar von E. Werner 10 

70 Der Konig der Luft von A. v. 

Winterfeld 20 

71 Mosehko von Parma v. Karl E. 

Franzos 10 

72 Scbuld und Siihne von Ewald 

A. Konig 20 

73 In Reih’ und Glied v. F. Spiel- 

Erste Halfte 26 



2 


DIE DEUTSCHE LIBRARY 


73 In Reih’ und Glied v. F. Spiel- 

hagen. ZweiteHalfte 20 

74 Geheimnisse einer kleinen 

Stadt von A. von Winterfeld 10 

75 Dag Landhaus am Rhein von 

B. Auerbach. Erste Halfte.. 20 

75 Das Landhaus am Rhein von 

B. Auerbach. Zweite Halfte 20 

76 Clara Vere von Friedrich Spiel- 


hagen 10 

77 Die Frau Burgermeisterin von 

G. Ebers 20 

78 Aus eigener Kraft von Wilh. 

V. Hillern 20 

79 Ein Kampf urn’s Recht von K. 

Franzos 20 

80 Prinzessin Schnee von Marie 

Widdern 10 

81 Die zweite Frau von E. Marlitt 20 

82 Benvenuto von Fanny Lewald 10 

83 Pessimisten von F. von Stengel 20 

84 Die Hofdame der Erzherzogin 

von F. von Witzleben-Wen- 
delstein 10 

85 Ein Vierteljahrhundert von B. 

Young 20 

86 Thttringer Erzahlungen von E. 

Marlitt 10 

87 Der Erbe von Mortella von A. 

Dom 20 

88 Vom armen egyptischen Mann 

V. Hans Wachenhusen 10 

89 Der goldene Schatz aus dem 

dreissigjahrigen Krieg v. E. 

A. Konig 20 

90 Das Fraulein von St. Ama- 

ranthe von R. von Gottschall 10 

91 Der Fiirst von Montenegro v. 

A. Winterfeld 20 

92 Um ein Herz von E. Falk 10 

93 Uarda von Georg Ebers 20 

94 In der zwolften Stunde von 

Fried. Spielhagen und Ebbe 
und Fluth von M. Widdern... 10 

95 Die von Hohenstein von Fr. 

Spielhagen. Erste Halfte. . 20 

95 Die von Hohenstein von Fr. 

Spielhagen. Zweite Halfte. . 20 

96 Deutsch und Slavisch v. Lucian 

Herbert 10 

97 Im Hause des Commerzien- 

Raths von Marlitt 20 

98 Helene von H. Wachenhusen 

und Die Prinzessin von Por- 
tugal V. A. Meissner 10 

99 Aspasia von Robert Hammer- 

ling 20 

100 Ekkehard v, Victor v. Schefifel 20 

101 Ein Kampf um Rom v. F.Dahn. 

Erste Halfte 20 

101 Ein Kampf um Rom v.F.Dahn. 

Zweite Halfte 20 

102 Sninoza von Berth. Auerbach. 20 

103 Von der Erde zum Mond von 

J. Verne 10 

104 Der Todesgruss der Legionen 

von G. Samarow 20 

105 Reise um den Mond von Julius 

Verne 10 


106 Fiirst und Musiker von Max 

Ring JM 

107 Nena Sahib v. J. Retcliflfe. Er- 

ster Band 20 

10? Nena Sahib von J. Retclifife. 

ZweiterBand 20 

107 Nena Sahib von J. Retcliflfe. 

DritterBand 20 

108 Reise nach dem Mittelpunkte 

' der Erde von Julius Verne 10 

109 Die silberne Hochzeit von S. 

Kohn 10 

110 Das Spukehaus von A. v. Win- 

terfeld 20 

111 Die Erben des Wahnsinns von 

T. Marx 10 

112 Der Ulan von Joh. van Dewall 10 
113. Um hohen Preis v. E. Werner 20 
114 Schwarz w alder Dorfgeschich- 

ten von B. Auerbach. Erste 
Halfte 20 

114 Schwarzwalder Dorfgeschich- 

ten V. B. Auerbach. Zweite 
Halfte 20 

115 Reise um die Erde von Julius 

Verne 10 

116 Casars Ende von S. J. R. 

(Schluss von 104) 20 

117 Auf Capri von Carl Detlef 10 

118 Severa von E. Hartner 20 

119 Ein Arzt der Seel© von Wilh. 

V. Hillern 20 

120 Die Livergnas von Hermann 

Willfried 10 

121 Zwanzigtausend Meilen un- 

term Meer von J. Verne 20 

122 Mutter und Sohn von August 

Godin 10 

123 Das Haus des Fabrikanten v. 

Samarow 20 

124 Bruderpflicht und Liebe von 

Schiicking 10 

125 Die Romerfahrt der Epigonen 

V. G. Samarow. Erste Halfte 20 

125 Die Romerfahrt der Epigonen 

V. G. Samarow. ZweiteHalfte 20 

126 Porkeles und Porkelessa von 

J Scherr 10 

127 Ein Friedensstorer von Victor 

Bluthgen und Der heimliche 
Gast von R. Byr 20 

128 Schone Frauen v. R. Edmund 

Hahn 10 

129 Bakchen und Thyrsostrager 

von A. Niemann 20 

130 Getrennt. Roman von E.Polko 10 

131 Alte Ketten. Roman von L. 

Schiicking 20 

132.Ueber die Wolken v. Wilhelm 

Jensen 10 

133 Das Gold des Orion von H. 

Rosenthal-Bonin 10 

134 Um den Halbmond von Sama- 

row. Erste H&lfte 20 

134 Um den Halbmond von Sama- 

row. Zweite H&lfte 20 

135 Troubadour - Novellen von P. 

Hejse 10 


8 


DIE DEUTSCHE LIBRARY. 




186 Der Schweden-Schatz von H. 

Wachenhusen 

)37 Die Bettlerin vom Pont des 
Arts uud Das Bild des Kaisers 
von Wilh. Hauff 

138 Modelle. Hist. Roman von A. v. 

Winterfeld 

139 Der Krieg um die Haube von 

Stefanie Keyser 

HO Numa Roumestan v. Alphonse 
Daudet 

141 Spatsommer, Novelle von C. 

von Sydovv und Engelid, No- 
velle V. Balduin IMollhausen 

142 Bartolomaus von Bnisehaver 

u. Musma Cussalin. Novellen 
von L. Ziemssien 

143 Ein gemeuchelter Dichter. Ko- 

mischer Roman von A. von 
Winterfeld. Erste Halfte 

143 Ein gemeuchelter Dichter. Ko- 

mischer Roman von A. von 
Winterfeld. Zvveite Halfte. . 

144 Ein Wort. Neuer Roman von 

G. Ebers 

145 Novellen von Paul Heyse 

146 Adam Homo in Versen v. Pa- 

ludan-Miiller 

147 Ihr einziger Bruder von W. 

Heimburg, 

148 Ophelia. Roman von H. von 

Lankenau 

149 Nemesis v. Helene v. Hiilsen 

150 Felicitas. Histor. Roman von 

F. Dahn 

151 Die Claudier. Roman v. Ernst 

Eckstein 

152 Eine Verlorene von Leopold 

Kompert 

153 Luginsiand. Roman von Otto 

Roquette 

154 Im Banne der Musen von W. 

Heimburg 

155 Die Schwester v. L. Schiicking 

156 Die Colonie von Friedrich Ger- 

stacker 

157 Deutsche Liebe. Roman v. M. 

Muller 

158 Die Rose von Delhi von Fels. 

Erste Halfte 

158 Die Rose von Delhi von Fels. 

Zvveite Halfte 

159 Debora. Roman vonW. Muller 

160 Eine Mutter v. Friedrich Ger- 

stacker 

161 Friedhofsblum© von W. von 

Hillern 

162 Nach der ersten Liebe von K. 

Frenzel 

163 Gebannt u. erlOst v. E. Werner 

164 Uhlenhans. Roman von Ju ried. 

Spielhagen 

165 Klytia. Roman von G. Taylor. 

166 Mayo. ErzShlung v. P. Lindau 

167 Die Herrin von Ibichstein von 

F. Henkel 

168 Die Saxoborussen von Sama- 

rovv. Erste Halfte. 


20 

10 

20 

10 

20 

10 

10 

20 

20 

20 

10 

20 

10 

20 

10 

10 

20 

10 

20 

10 

10 

20 

10 

20 

20 

10 

20 

10 

20 

20 

20 

20 

10 

20 

20 


168 Die Saxoborussen von Sama- 

row. Zvveite HSlfte 20 

169 Serapis. Roman v. G. Ebers . 20 

170 Ein Gottesurtheil. Roman von 

E. Werner 10 

171 Die Kreuzfahrer. Roman von 

Felix Dahn 20 

172 Der Erbe von Weidenhof von 

F. Pelzeln 20 

173 Die Reise nach dem Schicksal 

V. Franzos 10 

174 Villa Schbnow. Roman v. W. 

Raabe 10 

175 Das Vermachiniss v. Eckstein. 

Erste Halfte 20 

175 Das Vermachtniss v. Eckstein. 

Zvveite Halfte 20 

176 Herr und Frau Bewer von P. 

Lindau 10 

177 Die Nihilisten von Joh. Scherr 10 

178 Die Frau niit den Karfunkel- 

steinen von E. Marlitt 20 

179 Jetta. Von George Taylor 20 

180 Die Stieftochter. Von J. Smith 20 

181 An der Heilquelle. Von Fried. 

Spielhagen 20 

182 Was der Todtenkopf erzahlt, 

von Jokai 20 

183 Der Zigeunerbaron, von Jokai 10 

184 Himmlische u. irdische Liebe, 

von Paul Heyse 20 

185 Ehre, Roman v O. Schubin... 20 

186 Violanta, Roman V. E. Eckstein 20 

187 Nemi, Erzahlung von H. Wa- 

chenhusen 10 

188 Strandgut, von Joh. v. Dewall. 

Erste Halfte 20 

188 Strandgut, von Joh. v. Dewall. 

Zvveite Halfte 20 

189 Homo sum, Roman von Georg 

Ebers 20 

190 Eine Aegyptische Konigstoch- 

ter, von Georg Ebers. Erste 
Halfte 20 

190 Eine Aegyptische Konigstoch- 

ter, von Georg Ebers. Zweite 
Halfte 20 

191 Sanct Michael, von E. Werner. 

Erste Halfte 20 

191 Sanct Michael, von E. Werner. 

Zweite Halfte 20 

192 Die Nilbraut, von Georg Ebers. 

Erste Halfte 20 

192 Die Nilbraut, von Georg Ebers. 

Zweite Halfte 20 

193 DieAndere, von W. Heimburg 20 

194 Ein armes Madchen, von W. 

Heimburg 20 

195 Der Roman der Stif tsdame, von 

Paul Heyse 20 

196 Kloster Wendhusen, von W. 

Heimburg • 20 

197 Das Vermachtniss Kains, von 

Sacher-Masoch. Erste Halfte 20 

197 Das Vermachtniss Kains, von 

Sacher-Masoch. ZweiteHSlft© 20 

198 FrsuJVenus, von Karl Frenzel 20 


4 


DIE DEUTSCHE LIBRAKY. 


199 Eine Viertelstuiide Vater, von 

F. W. Hacklauder 10 

200 Heimatklanj;. von E. Werner.. 10 

201 Herzenskrisen, von \V. Heim- 

burp: 20 

202 Die Sch western, von G. Euers.. 20 

203 Der Eg^oist, von E. Werner 10 

204 Salvatore, von E. Eckstein 20 

205 Lumpen Diillers Liesehen, von 

W. Heimbiirg: 20 

20G Das einsaine Haus, von Adolf 

Streckfus 20 

207 Die verlorene Handschrift, von 

G. Frey tag:. Erste Halfte. . . 20 

207 Die verlorene Handschrift, von 

G. Frey tag:. Zweite Halfte. . 20 

208 Das Eulenhaus, von E. Marlitt 20 

209 Des Herzens Golgatha, von H. 

Wachenhusen 20 

210 Aus dem Leben meiner alten 

Freundin, von W. Heimbnrg 20 

211 Die Gred, von G. Ebers. Erste 

Halfte 20 

211 Die Gred, von G. Ebers. Zweite 

Halfte 20 

212 Tnidchens Heirath, von Wilh. 

Heiniburg 20 

213 Asbein, von Ossip Schubin 20 

214 Die Alpenfee, von E. Werner.. 20 

215 Nero, von E. Eckstein. Erste 


215 Nero, von E. Eckstein. Zweite 


Halfte 20 

216 Zwei Seelen, von R. Lindau 20 

217 Manover- u. Kriegsbilder, von 

Job. von Dewall 10 

218 Lore von Tollen, von W. Heim- 

burg 20 

219 Spitzen, von P. Lindau 20 

220 Der Referenda!*, von E. Eck- 

stein 10 

221 Das Geiger-Evchen.von A.Dom 20 

222 Die Gdttei burg, von M. Jokai 20 

223 Der Kronprinz und die deutsche 

Kaiserkrone, von G. Freytag 10 

224 Nicht im Geleise, von Ida Boy- 

Ed 20 

225 Camilla, von E. Eckstein 20 

226 Josua, eine Erzahlung aus bib- 

lischer Zeit, von G. Ebers 20 

227 Am Belt, von Gregor Samarow 20 

228 Henrik Ibsen’s Gesammelte 

Werue. Erster Band 20 

2*38 Henrik Ibsen’s Gesammelte 

Werke. Zweiter Band 20 

228 Henrik Ibsen’s Gesammelte 

Werke. Dritter Band 20 

228 Henrik Ibsen’s Gesammelte 

Werke. Viei ter Band 20 

229 In geisiigerlrre, von H. Kohler 20 

230 Flammenzeichen, v. E. Werner 20 

231 Der Seelsorger, von V. Valentin 10 


Halfte 20 

Ein schoner nusgearbeiteter Catalog, enthaliend eine alphabetiache List, 
wird von George Munro / iir 10 cents an alle Adressen versendet. 

„Die Deutsche Library“ ist bei alien Zeitungshandlern zu haben, oder 
wird gegen 12 Cents fiir einfache Nummern, oder 25 Cents ftir Doppelnum- 
mern nach irgend einer Adresse portofrei versendet. Bei Bestellungen durcb 
die Post bittet man nach Nummern zu bestellen. 


1*. O. Box 3751. 17 to !17 Vandewater Street, New York. 


Ik New York Fashion Bazar Book of the Toilet. 

WITH HANDSOME LITHOGRAPHED COVER. 

PRICE 25 CENTS. 

This is a little book which we can recommend to every lady for the Preserva- 
tion and Increase of Health and Beauty. It contains full directions for all the 
arts and mysteries of pereonal decoration, and for incieasing the natural 
graces of form and expression. All the little affections of the skin, hair. e3*es, 
and body, that detract from appearance and happiness, are made the sub- 
jects of precise and excellent recipes. Ladies are instructed how to reduce 
their weight without injury to health and without producing pallor and weak- 
ness. Nothing necessary to a complete toilet book of recipes and valuable 
advice and information has been overlooked in the compilation of this volume. 


For sale by all newsdealers, or sent by mail to any address on receipt of 
price, by the publisher. 

Address GEORGE MUNRO, Muuro’s House, 


(P.O.Box 3751.) 


17 to 27 Vandewater Street, New York. 


MTJNRO’S PUBLICATIONS. 


Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. 

By CABBO!.!., 

Author op “ Through the Looking-Glass.” 

With Forty-two Beautiful Illustrations by John Tenniel. 

Handsomely Bound in Cloth. 12mo. Price 50 Cents. 


Tiroili tlie Looini-Glass & flat Alice Fon3 Tliere 

By CABBOA.I.. 

ILLUSTRATED BY JOHN TENNIEL. 

Elegantly Bound in Cloth. Price 50 Cents. 


NEW TABEENACLE SEEMONS. 

BY THE 

Rev. T. DeWitt Talmage, D.D. 

Handsomely Bound in Cloth. 12mo. Price $1.00. 

Blood is Thicker than Water: 

A FEW DAYS AMONG 

OUR SOUTHERN BRETHREN. 

By Henry H. Fieia, ».». 

PRICE as CENTS. 


JDliet Corson’s New Fail? Cool: Bool 

By MISS JULIET CORSON. 

Handsomely Bound in Cloth. Price $1.00. 


The above works are for sale by all newsdealers, or will be sent by mall 00 
Teceipt of the price. Address 

GEORGE MUNRO, Munro’s Publishing House, 

(P. Q. Box 3751 ) 17 to 27 Vaudewater Street, New Yorl|^ 





lUNRO’S PUBLICATIONS. 


The New Tork Fashion Bazar Book of the Toilet. 

PRICE ‘25 CENTS. 

This is a little book which we can reconimetul to every lady for the Preserva 
tif-nand Increase of Health and Beauty. It contains full directions for all the 
arts and mysteries of personal decoration, and for increasing the natural 
graces of form and expression. All the little affections of the skin, hair, eyes 
and body, that detract from appearance and happiness, are made the sub 
jects of precise and excellent recipes. Ladies are instructed how to reduce 
their weight without injury to healtli and without pr oducing pallor and weak- 
ness. Nothing necessary to a complete toilet book of recipes anu valuable 
advice and information has been overlooked in the compilation of this volume. 

For sale by all newsdealers, or sent by mail to any address, postage pre 
paid, on receipt of price, 25 cents, by the publisher. Address 

GEORGE MUNRO, Munro’s Publishing House, 

(P. O. Box 3751.) 17 to 27 Vandewater Street, New York. 


The New Terk Fashion Bazar Book of Etiquette. 

PRICE ‘25 CENTS. " 

This book is a guide to good manner s and the ways of fashionable societ}'; 
a complete hand-book of behavior: containing all the polite otiservances of 
modern life; the Etiquette of engagements and marriages; the manners and 
training of childr en; the arts of conversation and polite letter-writing; invi- 
tations to dinners, evening parties and entertainments of all descriptions; 
table mauners, etiquette of visits and public places; how to serve breakfasts, 
luuciieons, dinners and teas; how to dress, travel, shop, and behave at hotels 
and watering-places. This book contains all that a lady and gentleman re 
quires for correct behavior on all social occasions. 

For sale by all newsdealers, or sent by mail to any address on receipt of 
price, 25 cents, postage prepaid, by the publisher. Address 

GEORGE MUNRO, Munro’s Publishing House, 
fP. O. Box 3751.) 17 to 27 Vandewater Street, New York. 


THE NEW YORK FASHION BAZAR 

Model Letter-Writer and Lovers’ Oracle. 

PRICE ‘25 CENTS. 

This book is a complete guide for both ladies and gentlemen in elegant 
and fashionable letter-writing: containing perfect examples of every form of 
correspondence, business letters, love letters, letters to relatives and friends, 
wedding and reception cards, invitations to entertainments, letters accepting 
and declining invitations, letters of introduction and recommendation, letters 
of condolence and duty, widows’ and widowers’ letters, love letters for all 
occasions, proposals of ’marriage, letters between betrothed lovers, letters of 
a young girl to her sweetheart, correspondence relating to household man- 
agement, letters accompanying gifts, etc. Every form of letter used in affairs 
of the heart will be found in this little hook, it ccmtains simple and full di- 
rections for writing a good letter on all occasions. The latest forms used in 
the best society have been carefully followed. If is an excellent manual of 
reference for all forms of engraved cards and invitations 

For sale by all newsdealers, or sent by mail to any address, postage paid, 
on receipt of price, 25 cents, by the publisher. Address 

GEORGE MUNRO, Munro’s Publishing House, 

17 to 27 Vandewater Street, New York. 


(P. O. Box 3751.) 



GOLD MEDAL PARIS 

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